They might contentedly do so, for whoever saw Christine Ruleson that afternoon, in the midst of those forty or fifty children, saw something as near to a vision of angels, as they were likely to see on this earth. She stood among them like some divine mother. A little one three years old was on her right arm. It pulled her earrings, and rumpled her hair, and crushed her lace collar, and she only kissed and held it closer. A little lad with a crooked spine, and the seraphic face which generally distinguishes such sufferers, held her tightly by her right hand. Others clung to her dress, and called her name in every key of love and trust. She directed their games, and settled their disputes, and if anything went wrong, put it right with a kiss.
The Domine watched her for ten or fifteen minutes, then he went slowly up the hill. “Where at a’ is Christine, Domine?” asked Margot. “I’m wanting her sairly.”
“Christine is too busy to meddle with, Margot. She’s doing God’s best work – ministering to little children. As I saw her half-an-hour ago, she was little lower than the angels. I’m doubting if an angel could be lovelier, or fuller of life and love, and every sweet influence.”
“Christine is a handsome lass, nae doubt o’ that, but our women are all o’ them heritage handsome. I’m doubting if Eve, being a Jewess, could be worth evening wi’ us.”
“Eve was not a Jewess. She was God’s eldest daughter, Margot.”
“Then God’s eldest daughter hasna a very gude character. She has been badly spoken of, ever since the warld began. And I do hope my Christine will behave hersel’ better than Eve did – if all’s true that is said anent her.”
“Christine is a good girl, Margot. If little children love a woman, and she loves them, the love of God is there. Margot! Margot! God comes to us in many ways, but the sweetest and tenderest of all of them, is when he sends Jesus Christ by the way of the cradle.”
All’s well that ends well. If this be true, the first session of Culraine school was a great success. It had brought an entirely new, and very happy estimate of a father’s and a mother’s duty to their children. It had even made them emulous of each other, in their care and attention to the highest wants of childhood.
The whole village was yet talking of the examination when the herring came. Then every woman went gladly to her appointed post and work, and every man – rested and eager for labor – hailed the news with a shout of welcome. Peter Brodie’s big Sam brought it very early one lovely summer morning, and having anchored his boat, ran through the sleeping village shouting – “Caller Herrin’! In Culraine Bay!”
The call was an enchantment. It rang like a trumpet through the sleeping village, and windows were thrown up, and doors flung open, and half-dressed men were demanding in stentorian voices, “Where are the fish, Sam?”
“Outside Culraine Bay,” he answered, still keeping up his exultant cry of “Caller Herrin’!” and in less than half an hour men were at work preparing for the amazing physical strain before them. Much was to do if they were to cast their nets that evening, and the streets were soon busy with men and lads carrying nets and other necessities to the boats. It was up with the flag on every boat in commission, for the fishing, and this day’s last preparations excited the place as if it were some great national holiday. The women were equally full of joyful business. They had to cook the breakfast, but immediately after it were all in the packing and curing sheds. You would have been sure they were keeping holiday. Pleasant greetings, snatches of song, encouraging cries to the men struggling down to the boats with the leaded nets, shouts of hurry to the bewildered children, little flytings at their delays, O twenty different motives for clamor and haste were rife, and not unpleasant, because through all there was that tone of equal interest and good fellowship that can never be mistaken.
Margot had insisted on a visit to her special shed, to see whether all was in readiness for her special labor, but Christine had entreated her to wait for her return from the town, where she was going for orders. She had left her mother with the clear understanding that she would not risk the walk and the chatter and the clatter until the following day. But as soon as she was alone, Margot changed her intentions. “I must make the effort,” she said to herself. “I’m feared of the pain, that’s all about it.” So she made the effort, and found out that there was something more than fear to be reckoned with.
Christine brought home astonishing orders, and Margot’s face flushed with pride and energy. “I’ll not let that order slip through my fingers,” she cried, “I’m going to the kippering, and what I canna do, Christine can manage, following my say-so.”
This change in Margot’s work was the only shadow on that year’s herring-tide. It was a change, however, that all felt would not be removed. Margot said, with a little laugh, that she was teaching her lassie how to make a living, or how to help some gudeman to do it. “And I have a fine scholar,” she soon began to add. “Christine can now kipper a herring as weel as her mother, and why not? She has seen the kippering done, ever since she wore ankle tights.”
“And you will be glad of a bit rest to yourself, Margot, no doubt,” was the general answer.
“Ay, I have turned the corner of womanhood, and I’m wearing away down the hillside of life. I hae been in a dowie and desponding condition for a year or mair.”
“Christine is clever with business, and folks do say she has a full sense of the value of money.”
“To be sure, Nancy. There’s no harm in the like of that. Her feyther came from Aberdeen folk, and it’s weel recognized that Aberdeen folk look at both sides of a penny.”
“Christine is a clever lass, and good likewise, we were all saying that, a while ago.”
“Weel, some folk, out of bad taste, or a natural want of good sense, may think different; but there – that’s enough on the subject of Christine. Her feyther is gey touchy anent Christine, and it will be as weel to let that subject alone.”
So, day after day, Margot sat in a chair at her daughter’s side, and Christine filled the big orders as her mother instructed her. And they were well filled, in good time, and the outcome was beyond all expectation. Yet Christine looked sadly at the money, and Margot turned her head away, to hide the unbidden tears in her eyes, as she said:
“It’s all yours, lassie. I’ll not touch a farthing of it. You have fairly won it. It will happen help Neil’s deficiencies. Oh, my dear lassie! Mither has done her last kippering! I feel it.”
“Then I’ll kipper for you, Mither, as long as we both live. The hill is now o’er much for you – and the noisy women, and skirling bairns! Christine will go to Mother’s shed, and Mother will bide at hame, and red up the house, and have a cup of tea ready for hungry folk, as they come weary hame.”
And Margot let it go at that, but she was as she said, “dowie and despondent.” Ruleson begged her to go with him to Edinburgh, and get the advice of a good physician, but Margot would not listen to any entreaty.
“I’ll no do any such thing,” she answered. “Not likely! The Domine can gie the pain a setback, and if God wants me here, He’ll keep me here, sick or well, and if He doesna want me here, I’m willing to go where He does want me.” From this position Margot was not movable, and now that the herring fishing was over, there did not appear to be any reason for making her restless and unhappy. So she naturally drifted into that household position, where everyone took care not to tire, and not to vex, grandmother.
One morning in the early days of October, Christine was sitting sewing, and Margot was making shortcake. They had been talking of Neil and wondering where he was.
“I’m thinking it is whole o’ a month, since we heard from the lad,” said Margot.
“I dare say it’s mair, Mother; and that letter was from some strange French seaside place, and he was thinking that they wouldna stay there very long. He has mebbe gane further awa’ than France.”
“I wouldn’t wonder – setting a young man traveling is like setting a ball rolling down a hill. Baith o’ them are hard to turn back.”
Margot had scarcely finished speaking, when Sam Brodie opened the door. He had been to the town post office and seen, in the list of uncalled-for letters, a letter addressed to Christine, so he had brought it along. It proved to be from Neil, and had been posted in Rome. Christine was familiar with that postmark, and it still had power at least to raise her curiosity. Neil’s handwriting, however, spoke for itself, and before she broke the seal, she said, “Why, Mither! It is from Neil.”
“I thought that, as soon as Sam came in. I was dreaming of a letter from Neil, last night. I dinna dream for naething. Make haste with the news – good or bad – read it all. I want to hear the warst of it.” Then Christine read aloud the following letter:
Dear Christine,
I want you to tell Mother that I married Miss Rath in Paris on the fifth of September ult. We were afraid that Reginald was going to interfere, so we settled the matter to prevent quarreling – which, you know, is against my nature. Reginald’s opposition was quite unlooked for and, I must say, very ill-natured and discouraging. If there is anything in a man’s life he should have full liberty and sympathy in, it is his marriage. I dare say Mother will have some complaint or other to make. You must talk to her, until she sees things reasonably. We were married in the Protestant Episcopal Church in Paris, very quietly – only the necessary witnesses – and came on here at once. I disapproved so highly of Reginald’s behavior at this important period of my life, and of some insulting things he said to me, that I have resolved not to have any more relations with him. After all I have done for him, it is most disheartening. My wife feels her brother’s conduct very much, but she has perfect trust in me. Of course, if I had been married in Scotland, I would have had my friends’ presence, but I am quite sure that my best interests demanded an immediate marriage. We shall be home in a month, and then I propose to open a law office in Glasgow in my own name. I shall do better without impedimenta like Reginald Rath. I trust to you to make all comfortable at home. I shall desire to bring my wife to see my mother. I am proud of Roberta. She is stylish, and has a good deal more money than I expected. I shall not require Reginald’s money or patronage, they would now be offensive to my sense of honor and freedom. Give my love to my father and mother, and remember I am
Always your loving brother,Neil.
There was a few moments’ dead silence, and Christine did not lift her eyes from the paper in her hand, until a passionate exclamation from Margot demanded her notice.
“Oh, Mither, Mither!” she cried, “dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick; it’s Neil, our Neil, that you are calling a scoundrel.”
“And I’ll call a scoundrel by no ither name. It’s gude enough for him.”
“We were talking one hour ago about him marrying Miss Rath, and you took to the idea then. Now that he has done so, what for are you railing at him?”
“I’m not railing at him for marrying the lass, she’s doubtless better than he deserves. It’s the way that he’s done the business – the mean, blackguardly way he’s done the business, that shames and angers me. Dod! I would strike him on the face, if he was near my hand. I’m shamed o’ him! He’s a black disgrace to his father and mother, and to all the kind he came from.”
“Generally speaking, Mother, folks would say that Neil had done weel to himsel’ and praise him for it.”
“Who are you alluding to? Dinna call the name ‘Neil’ in my hearing. Scoundrel is gude enough to specify a scoundrel. I hae counts against him, and he must clear himself, before I’ll pass his christened name o’er my lips.”
“What are your counts against him? Maybe I can speak a word to explain them.”
“Not you! First, he has, beyond a’ doubt, deceived the lass’s brother. He should hae spoken to him first of all, and the young man wouldna hae said insulting words if there wasna cause for the same.”
“The lady was of full age, and sae had the right to please herself, Mither.”
“She had not. She was as bad as Neil, or she would have sought her brother’s consent.”
“Perhaps Neil wouldna let her tell her brither.”
“That’s like enough. He has got the girl, and that means he has got full control o’ her money. Then he breaks his promise to go into partnership in business with the brother, and will open a law office in his ain name! He’ll open it, ye ken, wi’ the Rath siller, in his ain name! Having got plenty o’ the Rath siller to set himsel’ up, he drops the man whom he used to fleech and flatter enou’ to sicken a honest man. And he trusts to you to mak’ all comfortable here – but no word or whisper anent the ninety pounds he’s owing you. He has gotten mair money than he expectit wi’ his stolen wife, and yet he hasna a thought for the sister wha emptied the small savings o’ her lifetime into his unthankfu’ hands. Wae’s me, but I’m the sorrowfu’ mither this day.”
“For a’ that, Mither, dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick. Luck o’ some kind threw the Rath siller in Neil’s way.”
“Ay, and the scoundrel has ta’en all he could get o’ it.”
“That’s the way o’ the warld, Mother.”
“It isn’t the way o’ honest, honorable men. He ought to hae spoken to the young man plainly, and he ought not to hae quarreled wi’ him anent their business proposal. I understand that the Rath lad was na very knowing in the law nor indeed notable for managing his ain affairs, in any way.”
“Weel, Mither, it comes to this – Neil had made up his mind to tak’ his living out o’ the Rath purse, and he finally decided that he would rayther tak’ it from the lady, than the gentleman.”
Margot laughed at this remark. “You’ll not be far wrang in that observe, Christine,” she said, “but the lad may be far out o’ his reckoning, and I’m not carin’ if it be so. Nae doubt he thought the lassie wad be easier controlled than her brither, who, I was led to believe, had a vera uncertain temper. Roberta may pay a’ our wrangs yet. Little women are gey often parfect Tartars.”
“Mither! Mither! You wouldn’t wish your ain lad to marry a Tartar o’ a wife, and sae be miserable.”
“Wouldn’t I? A stranger winning their way wi’ the Raths’ siller, wouldna hae troubled me, it would hae been out o’ my concern. Christine, there are two things no good woman likes to do. One is to bring a fool into the warld, and the other is to bring one o’ them clever fellows, who live on other people’s money, instead o’ working their way up, step by step. I’m shamed o’ my motherhood this day!”
“Na, na, Mither! Think of Norman, and Allan, and the lave o’ the lads!”
“And forbye, I think shame o’ any son o’ mine being married in a foreign country, in France itsel’, the French being our natural enemies.”
“Not just now, Mither, not just now.”
“Our natural enemies! and a kind o’ people, that dinna even speak like Christians. Ye ken I hae heard their language in this vera room, Christine, and sorry I am to hae permitted the like.”
“There’s nae harm in it, Mither.”
“It led him astray. If Ruleson’s lad hadna kent the French tongue, he would hae persuaded thae Raths that America was the only place to see the warld in.”
“Well, Mither, he went to the English church in France – the Protestant Episcopal Church!”
“Another great wrang to our family. The Rulesons are of the best Covenanting stock. What would John Knox say to a Ruleson being married in an Episcopal Church, at the very horns o’ the altar, as it were? An unchristened Turk could do naething more unfitting.”
“Mither, I hear feyther and Jamie coming up the hill. Let us hae peace this night. We will tak’ counsel o’ our pillows, and in the morning we’ll see things in a different way, perhaps.”
“Perhaps!”
And the scorn Margot threw into the seven letters of that one word, “perhaps,” would have been an impossibility to any woman less ignorant, or less prejudiced in favor of her own creed and traditions. For it is in Ignorance that Faith finds its most invincible stronghold.
Ruleson came in with a newspaper in his hand. Jamie was with him, but as soon as he entered the cottage, he snuggled up to his grandmother, and told her softly, “Grandfather has had some bad news. It came in a newspaper.”
Grandfather, however, said not a word concerning bad news, until he had had his tea, and smoked a pipe. Then Christine and Jamie went to Christine’s room to read, and Ruleson, after tapping the bowl of his pipe on the hob until it was clean, turned to Margot, and said, “Gudewife, I hae news today o’ Neil’s marriage to Miss Rath.”
“Ay, Christine had a letter.”
“What do you think o’ the circumstance?”
“I’m wondering, when it was in a foreign country, and outside his ain kirk and creed, whether it was legal and lawful?”
“Neil is lawyer enough to ken he was all right. It is not the law side o’ the question I am thinking of. It is the hame side. Not a word to his ain folk, and not one o’ us present at the ceremony!”
“Neither were any of the lady’s family present. It was, I’m thinking, a marriage after Neil Ruleson’s ain heart. Neil first, and last, and altogether.”
“How’s that? The young man, her brother – ”
“Neil has quarreled wi’ him. Neil has got the lady and her money, and he is going to begin business in his ain name, exclusive! I consider Neil something o’ a scoundrel, and a mean one, at that.”
“I was talking to Finlay anent the matter, and he says Neil has done weel to himsel’, and he thinks him a gey clever young man.”
“And I’d like to have Finlay keep his false tongue out o’ my family affairs. I say Neil has done a dirty piece o’ business with the Raths, and that will be seen, and heard tell o’.”
“As I was saying, Margot, it is the hame side o’ the affair that gave me a shock. To think of a’ we hae done, of a’ his brithers hae done, and of the siller he got frae his sister! To think o’ it! Only to think o’ it! And not ane o’ us bid to his wedding. It fairly staggers me!”
“Nae wonder, gudeman! It’s an unspeakable business! I’ll not talk o’ it! The lad I nursed on my heart, and he’s fairly broken it at last. He’s a sinful creature!”
“We are all o’ us sinfu’ creatures, Margot!”
“We are not. You are much mista’en, James. There’s plenty o’ good men and women on every side o’ us. Neither you, nor mysel’, would do as Neil has done.”
“Perhaps not – but we baith hae our ain way o’ sinning, Margot, you ken that.”
“Speak for yoursel’, gudeman!”
“Finlay said – ”
“Kay! Kay! I’ll no be fashed wi’ Finlay’s foolishness. I’m awa’ to my sleep. My lad, my dear lad, you are heart-weary. I’m sorry for you.”
“Wait a moment, Margot. Finlay says he has nae doubt Neil has married ten thousand pounds a year. Think o’ that!”
“I’ll think of nae such foolishness. And if it was twenty thousand, the lad would need it all – we hae brought him up sae badly!”
Margot disappeared with the words, and the unhappy father as he covered the fire, and pottered about the house, said sorrowfully:
“She’s right! She’s always right. If her words are in the way o’ reproach, it’s my fault! James Ruleson’s fault! I ought to hae stood out against the Maraschal. If we had made him a minister, he would hae been obligated to set an example to a kirkful o’ men and women, and folks will sin against their ain house, when they will do their duty to a kirkful.”
CHAPTER IX
A HAPPY BIT OF WRITING
The dead sailor,
Has peace that none may gain who live;
And rest about him, that no love can give,
And over him, while life and death shall be,
The light and sound, and darkness of the sea!
The winter following Neil’s marriage was a pleasant one to the village of Culraine. The weather was favorable, the line fishing more than usually prosperous, and the school remarkably successful. Ruleson took the greatest delight in its progress, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than a walk in its vicinity, when he could see the children coming and going, with their books and balls in their hands. They all knew him, but however large the group in the playground, he could pick little Jamie out of it in a moment. And oh, how good it was to see the old man defying his failure with Neil, and building still grander hopes on this lad of ten years old! Truly, from the good heart Hope springs eternal. It forgets that it is mortal, because it takes hold on immortality.
Christine heard constantly from Cluny, but it was nearly a year since she had seen him, for the crew of a passenger steamer trading to foreign ports, do not obtain leave easily, especially in their first year. And Cluny had never been in Glasgow port long enough to make a journey to Culraine and back possible. Christine did not fret herself because of his absence. She was not as one of the foolish ones, who regard a lover and love-making as the great essential of life. She had proved in her own case, that Duty was far above, and beyond Love. She had known cases where Honor had been put before Love. She had seen Angus Ballister put mere social caste before Love. It was a fact known to all the world, that gold laughed at Love, and bought and sold Love, as if he were merchandise in the market place.
She loved Cluny, but her love was subject to her duty, which at present was evidently in her own home. Her father was strong and full of the joy of living, but his work was on the winter seas, and he needed the comfort of a well-ordered house and properly-cooked food after his hard day’s fishing. Her mother was sick and failing, and it appeared to Christine’s anxious heart that she was losing, instead of gaining, ground. Margot denied this position, but Christine noticed that one little household duty after another was allowed to drift quietly into her hands. Then also there was Jamie, whom she tenderly loved, and who was wholly dependent on her care and help. His food – his clothes – his lessons! What could Jamie do without her?
One morning in February, she had a letter from Cluny, which set at naught all these claims. He had two hundred pounds in the Bank of Scotland, and he wanted to get married. He was studying navigation, and he would be third officer in another year. He was fairly wasting his life without Christine. He was growing old with the disappointment he was getting constantly. He was next door to dying, with one put-off after another. If he came up on the fifteenth, would she walk over to the Domine’s with him? He felt as if the Domine might bury him, if he didna marry him. He declared he had been sick with the love and pain of wanting her, ever since he could remember himself, “and yet, Christine,” he wrote, “you are mine. Mine from your birth hour. Mine whether you love me, or don’t love me. Mine if you marry someone else. Mine even if you die, for then I would soon follow, and find you out, wherever you were.”
What was a girl of cool, reasonable nature, to do with a lover of this impetuous, vehement temper?
She told her mother that Cluny was coming, and she noticed that the news instantly changed the atmosphere of the room. Margot had been sewing and chatting cheerfully in her chair by the fireside. She dropped her work, and became thoughtful and silent. Christine knew why, and she said to herself, “Mither is fearing I am going to marry Cluny, and leave her alane! As if I would! The man never lived, who could make me do the like o’ that.” She waited ten minutes to give Margot time to recover herself, but as she did not do so, she asked, “Mither, are you doubting Christine?”
“No, dearie! I couldna do that.”
“What then?”
“I’m doubting mysel’. Doubting my power to look to your feyther’s comfort, and the like o’ that, and maybe fearing a strange woman in the house.”
“Why a strange woman?”
“There’s things I canna do now – things I havna the strength for, and – ”
“You think that Christine would leave you?”
“Weel, there is the peradventure.”
“Mither, put your arm round me. To the end of your life, Christine will put hers round you. Naebody can part us twa. Naebody!”
“I thought Cluny was coming – and – that – ”
“I would leave you. Leave you now! Leave you, and leave feyther without anyone to cook his meals, and leave wee Jamie, who looks to me as if I was his Mither. Na, na! You mustna judge Christine in that way. What for would I leave you? Because a lad loves me out of a’ sense and reason. Even if I was his wife, love and duty would count your claim first. God said a man should leave feyther and mither, and cleave to his wife; but He didna tell a woman to leave her feyther and mither, and cleave to her husband.”
“He would mean it, Christine.”
“Then He would hae said it. He leaves nae room to question.”
“There might be what is called ‘inferences.’”
“Na, na, Mither! It is thus and so, and do, and do not, wi’ God. There’s nae inferences in any o’ His commands. When folks break them, they ken well they are breaking them. But what will we be talking o’ this matter for? You yoursel’ are beyond the obligation.”
“I ne’er had it, I may say, for my feyther was drowned ere I was born, and my mither died ere I was five years old. It’s different wi’ you, dearie.”
“It is, but Christine kens all o’ her duty, and it will be her pleasure to fulfill it.” And she clasped her mother’s hands in hers, and kissed her. And Margot’s old pawky smile flitted o’er her face, and she said, “We must ask the Domine anent this question” – then a little sarcastically – “or Neil will gie us the Common Law o’ Scotland concerning it.”
So the trouble ended with a smile and the shout of Jamie as he flung open the house door, in a storm of hurry and pleasure. “Auntie! Grandmither!” he cried. “We are going to have a tug-of-war between the English and the Scotch, on the playground, at half-past twelve. I’m on the Scotch side. Gie me my dinner, Auntie, and I’ll be awa’ to help floor Geordie Kent, and the rest of his upsetting crowd. Geordie’s mither is English, and he’s always boasting about the circumstance.”
“Are you going to tak’ the brag out o’ him, Jamie?”
“I am going to help do so, with all my might, but there’s some Border lads among the English set, and they are a hefty lot, and hard to beat.”
“That’s right, Jamie! Fife lads shout when the boat wins the harbor, not till then. All the same, laddie, bring me word o’ your victory.”
When dinner was over Christine dressed herself for her visitor, and the light of love and expectation gave to her face an unusual beauty. She wore her fisher costume, for she thought Cluny would like it best, but it was fresh and bright and quite coquettish, with its pretty fluted cap, its gold earrings, its sky-blue bodice and skirt of blue and yellow stripes, and the little kerchief of vivid scarlet round her shoulders. Its final bit of vanity was a small white muslin apron, with little pockets finished off with bows of scarlet ribbon. If she had dressed herself for a fashionable masquerade ball she would have been its most picturesque belle and beauty.
It was seven o’clock when Cluny arrived. Ruleson had gone to a meeting of the School Trustees, a business, in his opinion, of the very greatest importance; and Margot’s womanly, motherly sense told her that Cluny would rather have her absence than her company. So she had pleaded weariness, and gone to her room soon after tea was over, and Cluny had “the fair opportunity,” he so often declared he never obtained; for Margot had said to Jamie, “You’ll come and sit wi’ me, laddie, and gie me the full story o’ your bloody defeat, and we’ll mak’ a consultation anent the best way o’ mending it.”
“This is glorious!” cried Cluny, as he stood alone with Christine in the firelit room. “I have you all to mysel’! Oh, you woman of all the world, what have you to say to me this night?”
“What do you want me to say, Cluny?”
“Tell me that you’ll go before the Domine with me, in the morning.”
“Now, Cluny, if you are going to begin that trouble again, I will not stay with you.”
“Trouble, trouble? What trouble? Is it a trouble to be my wife?”
“I have told you before, I could not marry you till the right time came.”
“It is the right time now! It has to be! I’ll wait no longer!”
“You will wait forever, if you talk that way to me.”
“I’ll take my ain life, Christine, rayther than hae it crumbled awa’ between your cruel fingers and lips! aye writing, and saying, ‘at the proper time’! God help me! When is the proper time?”
“When my mither is better, and able to care for hersel’, and look after feyther and the house.”
“Is she any better than she was?”
“Na, I’m feared she is worse.”
“She is maybe dying.”
“I am feared she is.”
“Then if I wait till she dies – ”
“Be quiet, Cluny! How dare you calculate anything for my life, on my mither’s death? Do you think I would walk from her grave to the altar to marry you? I would hae to lose every gude sense, and every good feeling I have, ere I could be sae wicked.”
“Do you mean that after your mither’s death, you will still keep me waiting?”
“You know right well, Cluny, what our folk would say, if I didna observe the set time of mourning.”
“Great Scot! That’s a full year!”
“Ay. If a bairn dies in our village, its folk wear blacks for a year. Would I grudge a year’s respect for my mither’s memory? Forbye there would be my poor heart-broken feyther, and a’ his needs and griefs.”
“And the bairn, too, I suppose?”
“Ay, you’re right. The bairn is in our keeping, till he is fourteen. Then he goes to Domine Trenaby.”
“I hope the next storm will mak’ an end o’ me! I’m a broke man, in every worth-while. I hae money to mak’ a home, but I canna hae a home without a wife, and the wife promised me puts one mountain after another in the way, that no man can win over” – and he passionately clasped and unclasped his hands, while tears, unrecognized, flowed freely, and somewhat relieved the heart tension that for a few moments made him speechless.
It seems natural for a woman to weep, but it sends a thrill of pity and fear through a woman’s heart to see a man break down in unconscious and ungovernable weeping. Christine was shocked and strangely pitiful. She soothed, and kissed, and comforted him, with a gracious abandon she had never before shown. She could not alter circumstances, but she strengthened him for the bearing of them. She actually made him confess that she would lose something in his estimation, if she was capable of leaving her mother under present conditions. In his embrace she wept with him, and both of them learned that night the full sweetness of a love that is watered with mutual tears.