AN UNEXPECTED MARRIAGE
The tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.
The little enthusiasm incident to Neil’s success did not last long, for
Joy’s the shyest bird,
Mortal ever heard,
Listen rapt and silent when he sings;
Do not seek to see,
Less the vision be
But a flutter of departing wings.
And if it is not tightly clasped, and well guarded, it soon fades away, especially if doubt or question come near it. The heart, which is never weary of recalling its sorrows, seems to have no echo for its finer joys. This, however, may be our own fault. Let us remember for a moment or two how ruthlessly we transfer yesterday into today, and last week into this week. We have either no time or no inclination to entertain joys that have passed. They are all too quickly retired from our working consciousness, to some dim, little-visited nook in our memory. And taken broadly, this is well. Life is generally precious, according to the strength and rapidity of its flow, and change is the splendid surge of a life of this kind. A perfect life is then one full of changes. It is also a safe life, for it is because men have no changes, that they fear not God.
Now the people of this little fishing village had lives lined with change. Sudden deaths were inevitable, when life was lived on an element so full of change and peril as the great North Sea. Accidents were of daily occurrence. Loss of boats and nets reduced families to unlooked-for poverty. Sons were constantly going away to strange seas and strange countries, and others, who had been to the Arctic Ocean, or the ports of Australia, coming back home. The miracle of the son’s being dead and being alive again, was not infrequently repeated. Indeed all the tragedies and joys of life found their way to this small hamlet, hidden among the rocks and sand dunes that guard the seas of Fife.
Margot’s triumph was very temporary. It was not of the ordinary kind. It had in it no flavor of the sea, and the lad who had won his honors had never identified himself with the fishers of Culraine. He did not intend to live among them, and they had a salutary fear of the law, and no love for it. As a general thing neither the men nor women of Culraine cared whether Neil Ruleson won his degree or not. Such pleasure as they felt in his success was entirely for his father’s sake.
And Margot was content that it should be so. She was not heart-pleased with Neil, and not inclined to discuss his plans with her neighbors. She noticed also that Neil’s father had nothing to say about his son’s success, and that if the subject was introduced, it was coldly met and quickly banished.
It hurt Christine. Her life had been so intermingled with Neil’s hopes and plans, she could not let them drop unnoticed from her consciousness. “Why do you say naething anent Neil, Mither?” she asked one wet morning, when the boats were in harbor, and Ruleson had gone down to the new schoolhouse.
“Weel, Christine, I hae said a’ there is to say.”
“Were you really disappointed, Mither?”
“In a way.”
“But Neil succeeded.”
“In a way.”
“What way, Mither?”
“His ain way. He has been vera successful i’ that way, sin’ the day he was born. A wee, shrunken, puny infant he was, but he hes been a bit too much for us all—and there’s seven big men in our family, forbye mysel’ and Christine. Whiles I had a glimmering o’ the real lad, but maistly I did the lad’s way—like the rest o’ us.”
“You said he was kind to you and Feyther.”
“He hed to be. It’s a law, like the laws o’ the Medes and Persians, in Aberdeen, that lads takin’ honors should pay great attention to their feythers and mithers. Some were auld and poor—far poorer than fisher-folk ever are—they had worked, and starved, and prayed for their lads, and they were going about Aberdeen streets, linked on their lads’ arms, and all o’ them like to cry wi’ joy. Neil had to do like the lave, but I let his feyther gae his lane wi’ him. I wasna carin’ to mak’ a show o’ mysel’.”
“Then you shouldna blame Neil, Mither.”
“Should I not? I do, though.”
“What did he do wrang?”
“He did little right, and that little he had nae pleasure in. I know! He should hae spent the evening wi’ his feyther and mysel’, and told us what plans he had made for the future, but he went to the Raths’ and left us alane. He had promised all along to come hame wi’ us, and spend a few weeks wi’ the boats—your feyther is short-handed since Cluny Macpherson went awa’—and there’s little doing in the law business during July and August, but he said he had an invite to the Raths’ house on the Isle of Arran, and with them he has gane.”
“I’m sorry, sorry, Mither.”
“Sae am I, Christine, but when things hae come to ‘I’m sorry,’ there’s nae gude left i’ them.”
“Do you think he is engaged to Roberta Rath?”
“I canna say. I don’t think he kens himsel’.”
“Did you see her?”
“He pointed her out to me. She was getting into a carriage, and——”
“Weel?”
“O, she was a little body; I saw naething o’ her but a blue silk dress, and a white lace bonnet. It would be ordinary, nae doubt. She waved a white-gloved hand to Neil, and the lad’s face was like an illumination. She seemed vera sma’ and thin—just a handfu’ o’ her. Naething like yoursel’ and our ain full-statured, weel-finished women.”
“I feel as if I had lost Neil.”
“You may do sae, for a man can be lost by a woman, quite as completely as by the North Sea.”
Then Ruleson entered the cottage. He was wet through, but his face was red with health, and radiant with excitement. He had been in the new schoolhouse, and seen three large boxes unpacked. “Margot! Christine!” he cried joyfully, “you’ll be to come down the hill—the baith o’ you—and see the wonderfu’ things that hae come for ordering and plenishing o’ our school. There’s a round ball as big as that table, set in a frame—and it turns round, and round, and shows a’ the countries and seas i’ the wide warld. The Maister said it was called a globe. There’s maps o’ Scotland, and England and a’ other nations to hang on the walls, and they are painted bonnily; and there’s nae end o’ copy books and slates, and bundles o’ pencils, and big bottles o’ ink, and, Margot, I ne’er saw sae many school books i’ a’ my born days. Naething has been forgotten. The maister said sae, and the Domine said sae.”
“Was the Domine there?”
“Ay, was he. He and the maister unpacked the boxes. Forbye, there is three prizes for the three best scholars—the bairns will go wild o’er them.”
“What are they?”
“I canna tell you. The Domine forbade me.”
“You’ll hae to tell me, gudeman. I’ll hae nae secrets between us twa, and I’m mair than astonished at the Domine, throwing a married man into such a temptation.”
“I’ll go wi’ you how, Feyther. I want to see the wonderfuls.”
“They are locked by for today. We are going to fix the school room Monday, and hae a kind o’ examination Tuesday. I hope to goodness the herrin’ will keep to the nor’ard for a few days.”
“Listen to your feyther, Christine! Wishing the herrin’ awa’ for a lot o’ school bairns.”
“Weel, Margot, woman, it’s maist unlikely the feesh will be here for a week or mair, but they hae a will and a way o’ their ain, and aince or twice, or mebbe mair than that, I hae seen them in these pairts in June.”
“I think the Domine might hae notified Christine. She ought, by rights, to hae been at that unpacking.”
“Weel, Margot, it cam’ my way. I dinna think my lassie grudges me the pleasure.”
And Christine looked at him with a smile that deified her lovely face, and made Ruleson’s heart thrill with pleasure.
“I wad rayther you had the pleasure than mysel’, Feyther. You ken that,” she said, and Ruleson laid his hand on her head, and answered: “I ken it weel! God bless thee!”
That evening, while Christine and little Jamie were busy over Jamie’s lessons, Margot said to her husband, “Gudeman, I’d like to ken what prizes hae been bought. The Domine didna include me in his prohibition, or else he has less sense than I gie him credit for.”
“He said I had better tell naebody.”
“Ay, but you had best tell me. What classes are you givin’ prizes to? It’s a vera unusual thing to gie prizes. I think little o’ paying bairns to learn their lessons. But they’re no likely to be worth the looking at——”
“‘Deed are they—vera gude indeed, for the wee bairns for whom they were bought. There are three o’ them. The first is for the infant lass, nane o’ them over six years auld.”
“Weel, what is it?”
“The Domine——”
“Says many a thing you ta’ nae heed to. Just sae. You needna heed him on this point. Are not we twa one and the same? Speak out, man.”
“The Domine——”
“Wha’s minding the Domine here? Are you mair feared for him, than for your wife?”
Then Ruleson, with his great hearty laugh, pulled a chair to his side, and said, “Sit down, Margot. I’m mair afraid of you, than I am of any man living. I’m trem’ling wi’ fear o’ you, right now, and I’m just going to disobey the Domine, for your sake. What will ye gie me, if I break a promise for your sake?”
“I’ll keep my promise to you, and say naething anent your transgression. What kind o’ a prize could they gie to them babies i’ the infant class—nane o’ them five years auld? Did you see it?”
“Ay, I unpacked it.”
“Was it a rattle, set wi’ wee bells?”
“Naething o’ the kind. It was a big doll, bonnily dressed, and a little trunk fu’ o’ mair claes, and a full set o’ doll cheena, and a doll bed and night claes; wonderfu’, complete. My goodness! Whoever gets it will be the proud wee lassie.”
“Little Polly Craig will be getting it, o’ course. Who chose the presents?”
“I’m thinking it was the Domine and the schoolmaster’s wife.”
“Then they would be knowing wha’ they were buying for?”
“That goes without the saying. I didna hear onyone say the doll was for Polly Craig.”
“Nor I, but Polly’s mother hasna been to hold, nor to bind, anent the infant’s progress. The hale village is weary o’ the story o’ Polly’s remarkable intimacy wi’ her alphabet and spelling. The bairn may be a’ her mither says, but I’m thinking she’s getting her abilities too aerly to be reliable. Weel, then, who gets the next prize?”
“Willie Tamsen.”
“I dinna ken the Tamsens.”
“They’re nice folk, from the south o’ Fife. Willie is seven years auld, or thereby. He’s clever, the schoolmaster says, in figures and geography, and weel-behaved, and quiet-like. The Domine says he’s first in his catechism class, and vera attentive to a’ that concerns his lessons—a good little lad, wi’ an astonishing power o’ ken in him.”
“Weel, what will you gie sae remarkable a bairn?”
“A gold guinea.”
“A gold guinea! I ne’er heard o’ such wild extravagance. It’s fair sinfu’. Whate’er will a lad o’ seven years auld do wi’ a guinea? Buy sweeties wi’ it. I dinna think the Domine can sanction a bit o’ nonsense like that.”
“I’m maist sure the Domine gave the guinea out o’ his ain pocket. The Tamsens are vera poor, and the laddie is the warst-dressed lad i’ the village, and he is to go and get a nice suit o’ claes for himsel’ wi’ it. The Domine knew what he was doing. The laddie will be twice as bright, when he gets claes for his little arms and legs.”
“Weel, I hae naething against Willie Tamsen. He never meddled wi’ my flowers, or stole my berries. I hope he’ll get the claes. And there was to be three prizes?”
“Ay, one for the lads and lasses from eight to eleven years old, that takes in a large pairt o’ the school. The bigger lads and lasses will come in the autumn, when the herrin’ hae been, and gane.”
“I’m not asking anything anent that class. I dinna envy the schoolmaster and mistress that will hae them to manage. They’ll hae their hands fu’, or my name isna Margot Ruleson. Wha will get the third prize?”
“Our Jamie. And he has weel won it. Jamie isna a lad o’ the common order. The Domine says he’ll mak’ the warld sit up and listen to him, when he comes to full stature.”
“The Domine is as silly anent the bairn, as you are. After my ain lad, Neil, I’m expecting naething oot o’ the Nazareth o’ Culraine. We were a’ going to shout o’er Neil Ruleson—weel, we hae had our cry, and dried our eyes, and hae gane on our way again.”
“Neil has done weel—considering.”
“Gudeman, we hae better drop that ‘consideration.’ I was talking o’ our Jamie. What are they going to gie our second wonder o’ a bairn?”
“The maist beautiful book you ever saw—a big copy of Robinson Crusoe fu’ o’ pictures, and bound in blue wi’ gold lettering. The bairn will hae wonder after wonder wi’ it.”
“Did you buy the book?”
“Not I. What mak’s you ask that information?”
“Naething. Jamie should hae had something he could hae halfed wi’ Christine. She has spent the best o’ her hours teaching the bairn. Few or nane o’ the lads and lasses would hae the help o’ any hame lessons. It was really Christine put Neil Ruleson among her Majesty’s lawyers.”
“Weel, then, she’ll do her pairt in putting James Ruleson among the ministers o’ the everlasting God. That will be a great honor, and pay her handsome for a’ her love and labor.”
“Gudeman, ministers arena honored as they were when we were young. If preaching were to go oot o’ fashion, we——”
“What are you saying, Margot Ruleson? The preacher’s license is to the ‘end o’ the warld.’ The Word o’ the Lord must be gien to men, as long as men people the earth.”
“Vera weel! The Word o’ the Lord is in everybody’s hands the now; and everyone is being taught to read it. Maist folk can read it as weel as the minister.”
“The Word must be made flesh! Nae book can tak’ the place o’ the face-to-face argument. Preaching will last as long as men live.”
“Weel, weel, I’m not going to get you to arguing. You arena in the clubroom, and I’m too tired to go into speculations wi’ you. I’m obliged to you, gudeman, for the information you hae imparted. I wad, however, advise the Domine to gie his next secret into the keeping o’ some woman, say mysel’. Women arena sae amiable as men, and whiles they can keep a secret, which is a thing impossible to men-folk.”
“If they are married, I’ll admit there are difficulties.”
“Gude night, and gude dreams to you, James Ruleson.”
“Ye ken weel, Margot, that I never dream.”
“Sae you lose the half o’ your life, James. I’m sorry for you. I shall dream o’ the three happy bairns, and their prizes. Say, you might hae picked out another lassie; twa lads to one lass is o’erganging what’s fair. I’m awa’ to sleep—you needna answer.”
It was trying to the village that Sabbath had to come and go, before the school examination. But everything waited for arrives in its time. And this was a Monday worth waiting for. It was a perfect June day, and the sea, and the sun, and the wind held rejoicing with the green earth and the mortals on it. If there was envy, or jealousy, or bad temper among the villagers, they forgot it, or put it aside for future consideration. Everyone was in his best clothes, the boys and girls being mostly in white, and the little place looked as if there were a great wedding on hand. Christine had made an attempt to decorate the room a little. The boys cut larch boughs and trailing branches, the men loaned the flags of the boats, the women gave the few flowers from their window pots, and strips of garden, and Margot, a little sadly, cut her roses, and gave permission to Christine to add to them a few laburnum branches, now drooping with their golden blossoms.
The room looked well. The flowers and the flags did not hide the globe and the maps. And the blackboard kept its look of authority, though a branch of laburnum bent over it. The schoolmaster was playing a merry Fantasia as the company gathered, but at a given signal from Christine he suddenly changed it to the children’s marching song, and the rapid, orderly manner in which it led each class to its place was a wonderful sight to the men and women who had never seen children trained to obedience by music.
The Domine opened the examination by reading, in the intense silence that followed the cessation of the music, three verses from the eighteenth chapter of St. Luke:
“And they brought unto him infants that he would touch them, but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them.
“But Jesus called them unto him, and said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of God.
“‘Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child, shall in no wise enter therein.’”
Then the schoolmistress touched a hand bell and a crowd of little children, none over five years old, gathered round her. Contrary to the usual practice of children, their behavior and recitals were better than usual, and laughter and hand-clapping followed all their simple efforts. Polly Craig was their evident leader, and when she had told a charming story about a little girl who would do what she ought not to do, the records of the class were read by the Domine, and the prize awarded to Polly.
Willie Tamsen and Jamie Ruleson’s classes were treated in a similar way, and were equally successful in their recitations and equally delighted with their gifts. Now, the real joy in giving gifts is found in giving them to children, for the child heart beats long after we think it has outgrown itself. The perfect charm of this gathering lay in the fact that men and women became for a few hours little children again. It was really a wonderful thing to see the half-grown girls, the married women, and even old Judith Macpherson, crowding round Polly to admire the waxen beauty and the long fair curls of her prize doll.
After the school exercises the adults slowly scattered, sauntering home with their wives, and carrying their babies as proudly as Polly carried her new treasure. Truly both men and women receive the kingdom of God and Love, when they become as little children. The children remained for two hours longer in the school room. For the entertainment of their parents the youngest ones had danced some of those new dances just at that period introduced into Scotland, called polkas and mazurkas, and now, to please themselves, they began a series of those mythic games which children played in the world’s infancy, and which, thank God, have not yet perished from off the face of the earth. “How many miles to Babylon?” “Hide and seek,” “In and out,” “Blind man’s buff,” and so forth, and in this part of the entertainment, everything and everyone depended upon Christine. Mothers, going home, called to her, “Christine, look after my bairn,” and then went contentedly away.
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.”