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.
So, at the last, she made him strong and confident in hopes for the future, because God is love, and the circumstances that separated them were of His ordering. And Christine would think no ill of God, she was sure that life and death, and all things God ordained, were divinely good; and her influence overarched and enveloped Cluny, and perhaps for the first time, the real meaning of life and its difficulties pealed through his heart and brain.
Then as they were talking, Ruleson returned, and Ruleson, liking Cluny well, was rejoiced to see him, and they talked together with the greatest interest, while Christine placed upon the table the simple luxuries she had prepared for this anticipated meal. It was indeed a wonderfully happy meal, prolonged by interesting conversation till nearly midnight, for Ruleson wanted to hear all Cluny could tell about the Mediterranean, and Cluny was pleased to listen to Ruleson’s enthusiastic description of the good work the school was doing.
When Cluny at length rose to depart, Ruleson asked the date of his ship’s next visit to Glasgow, and then promised to meet him there, and to bring Christine with him for a two or three days’ pleasuring. Cluny was delighted, for though Christine only shook her head and smiled, he believed that in some way or other the visit could be managed. And Margot was enthusiastic about it. She said Christine must ask Faith to come and stay with her, and Norman would come to her through the night in case of trouble, and the Domine would call and see her, and wee Jamie was comfort and help baith. “Forbye,” she added, “I’m wanting to hear a’ about Neil and his wife, and their way o’ living, Christine, and if you’ll just make them an hour’s passing call, you can gie me a vera clear idea o’ the same.”
So the hastily projected trip became an anticipatory pleasure for which there was constant preparation going on. It was a wonderful prospect to Christine, who had never been five miles from her home, and Margot entered heartily into the scheme for making it a notable affair. She said the time was a lucky ordering, for it was near enough Easter to warrant a new spring suit, and she gave Christine a five-pound note, and sent her into the town to buy one. “You’ll get your ain choice, lassie,” she said, “but I’m thinking, if it should be o’ a light pearly-gray, it would suit you weel, and get your gloves and parasol o’ the same shade, as near as may be, but buy your bonnet in Glasgow town, for you will hae the height o’ the fashion there, and scores o’ shops to choose from.”
So for nearly a month this pleasant expectation kept the Ruleson cottage busy and happy. Christine’s pearly-gray cashmere dress came home, and was greatly admired, even by the Domine, who also took a great interest in the proposed visit to Glasgow. He advised her to send Neil word, as soon as she arrived there:
“And do as you have always done, Christine, strive for peace and family unity. There have been wrongs, no doubt, but you Rulesons have all nursed one mother’s breast, and learned your prayers at one mother’s knees, so if there is any little trouble between Neil and yourself, Christine, forgive it.”
“I love Neil, I hae loved him all my life, Sir. I intend to go on loving him. Ninety pounds could not part us. No, nor ninety hundred pounds. There’s no money’s-worth, can count love’s-worth.”
How does a young girl feel on the eve of her first pleasure journey, when she has pretty new clothing to wear, and money enough to spend, and is going in the care of an indulgent father to have fresh and unknown entertainments, with a lover who adores her, and whom she admires and truly loves? Is she not happy and joyous, and full of eager anticipation? And it was the last day of waiting. The valise which held her new dress and her father’s best suit, was packed, Faith had readily taken hold of the house duties, and Margot had been, and was, unusually well and active. Ruleson had gone fishing “to pass the time,” he said, and all was ready for the early start they proposed to make in the morning.
Ruleson generally came home in time for his six o’clock meal, but Christine, standing at the open door about four o’clock, saw him making for the harbor. “Father’s just like a bairn,” she thought. “I’m gey uplifted mysel’, but I’m plum steady, to what he is.” Then Margot joined her. “Is that your feyther coming, Christine?”
“Ay, it’s feyther, sure enou’!”
“What for is he coming at this time o’ day?”
“He’s just in a wave o’ excitement, he isna heeding what the clock says.”
“What time is it?”
“Not quite four.”
“Weel, you hed better put on the kettle; he’s used to eating as soon as he comes hame, and if his head is wrang anent the time, his stomach is doubtless wrang anent its eating.”
So the women went inside, and Christine put on the kettle, and Margot began to lay the cloth, and set the china on the table. It took Ruleson about half an hour to walk between his boat and his house, but suddenly Margot noticed that he was overdue, and yet not in sight. She called Christine, and they stood together at the land side door, and watched for him. A sudden silence fell between them, they stopped wondering about his delay, and kept their eyes on the road. The time seemed to stand still. Margot went into the house and sat down. Christine’s life seemed to be in her eyes. Every minute was like an hour. “Feyther, Feyther!” she said in an anxious whisper. “Whatna for are you delaying? What at all is keeping you? Come, Feyther!” And to this strong cry of the Inner Woman, he turned a corner, and was in full view.
Christine saw in a moment that something was wrong. “He isna walking like himsel’! He must hae got hurt some way or ither!” and she ran like a deer to meet him.
“Feyther! Feyther! Whatever’s ailing you?”
He stood still and looked at her, and she was shocked at his appearance.
“Have you hurt yoursel’, Feyther?”
“Something has hurt me. I hae taken a sair cold and shivering. I am ill, lassie. I maun hae a doctor as soon as maybe. I am in a hot and cauld misery. I can hardly draw a breath.”
Margot met them at the door. “Feyther is ill, Mither! Where’s Jamie? He will run and tell the Domine. Get feyther into his bed, and if I canna find Jamie, I’ll away mysel’ for the Domine. Perhaps I had better go to the town for Doctor Fraser.”
“Feyther says no! He wants to see the Domine, particular.”
“Then I’ll waste no time seeking Jamie. I’ll go mysel’ to the manse, and I’ll be back as quick as possible. Keep a brave heart, Mither. There’s only you, till I get back.”
Happily she found the Domine more than halfway on his road to Ruleson’s. He said he had had a feeling an hour ago, that he was wanted there, and he was angry with himself for not obeying the word given him. Then he took Christine’s hand, and they went hurriedly and in silence to the sick man.
“My friend! My dear friend!” he said as he clasped Ruleson’s hot hand and listened to his labored breathing, “I am going as fast as I can for Fraser. This is a trouble beyond my skill, and we want you well for the Easter school exercises. The bairns willna be happy missing you. So I’ll go quick as I can for Fraser.” Then turning to Margot, he said, “Where is Faith Anderson? I thought she was with you.”
“She is, but she went to the village to see some o’ her auld friends. She said she would be back by nine o’clock.”
“And Jamie? He could go wi’ me.”
“Faith took Jamie wi’ her.”
Then he went away, and Margot and Christine stood helplessly beside the suffering man. It grew dark, and no one came, and Christine felt as if she was in some dreadful dream, and could not awaken herself. They expected Norman about seven, but something detained him, and it was after nine when Faith and Jamie were heard on the hill. They were laughing and talking noisily, and Christine ran to meet, and to silence them. The sick man was growing rapidly worse, and there was no sign of the Domine and the doctor. Indeed it was near midnight when they arrived, and by this time Ruleson was unconscious.
Those who know anything of pneumonia will understand the hard, cruel fight that a man in the perfect health and strength of James Ruleson made for his life. Every step of the disease was contested, and it was only when his wonderful resistance gave out, and his strength failed him, that the doctor and the Domine lost hope. At length, one sunny afternoon, the Domine drew up the window shade, and let the light fall on the still, white face for a minute. Christine was at his side, and he turned to her, and said, “I am going back to the manse for the Blessed Cup of Remembrance. Get the table and bread ready, and tell your mother it is the last time! She must try and eat it with him.”
Christine looked at him with her soul in her eyes. She understood all he meant and she merely bowed her head and turned to the dying man. He lay as still as a cradled child. The struggle was over. He had given it up. It was peace at last. Where was James Ruleson at that hour? The Domine had said, “Do not disturb him. We know not what now is passing in his soul. Let him learn in peace whatever God wishes him to learn, in this pause between one life and another.”
Margot was on her bed in another room. Christine knelt down at her side, and said gently, “Mither, the great, wonderful hour has come. The Domine has gane for The Cup. With your ain dear hands you will spread the cloth, and cut the bread, for your last eating wi’ him. And, Mither, you won’t cry out, and weep, as those do who have nae hope o’ meeting again. You will mak’ yoursel’ do as the daughters o’ God do, who call Him ‘Feyther’! You’ll be strong in the Lord, Mither, and bid Feyther ‘good-by,’ like those who are sure they will meet to part no more.”
And Margot whispered, “I was brought low, and He helped me.”
A few hours later, in this simple cottage bedroom, the miracle of Love’s last supper in the upper chamber at Jerusalem, was remembered. With her own hands Margot covered a little table at her husband’s bedside with her finest and whitest linen. She cut the bread into the significant morsels, and when the Domine came, he placed them solemnly on the silver plate of the consecrated service, and poured wine into the holy vessel of The Communion. All was then ready, and they sat down to wait for that lightening which so often comes when the struggle is over and the end near.
They waited long. Ruleson’s deep sleep lasted for hours, and the Domine began to hope it might be that life-giving sleep which often introduces the apparently dying to a new lease of life.
He awoke after midnight, with the word “Margot” on his lips, and Margot slipped her hand into his, and kissed him.
“We are going to have supper with the Lord Christ. Will you join us, Ruleson?”
“Ay, will—I—gladly!”
After the simple rite Ruleson was quite happy. He said a few words privately to the Domine, asked for his grandson, and told him to be a good man, and a minister of God, and promised if it was in God’s will he would watch o’er him, and then blessed and sent him away.
“I might hae another struggle at the last. I dinna want him to see it.”
“The struggle is over, James,” answered the Domine. “Be still, and wait for the salvation of the Lord.”
And for some hours, even until the day broke, and the shadows began to flee away, that dying room was in a strange peace. Margot and Christine sat almost motionless, watching their loved one’s face growing more and more calm and content, and the Domine stood or sat at the foot of the bed, and all was intensely still.
“Great things are passing in the soul now,” he said to the women. “It is contemplating the past. It is judging itself. It is bearing witness to the righteousness and mercy of its Maker. Pray that it may come from this great assize justified through Christ.” Soon after, he added “The tide has turned, he will go out with the tide. Stand near him now, and sing softly with me his last human prayer:
“Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly;
While the nearer waters roll,
While the tempest still is nigh:
Hide me, oh my Saviour, hide!
Till the storm of life is past,
Safe into the haven guide,
Oh receive my soul at last!”
Once the dying man opened his eyes, once he smiled, but ere the last line was finished, James Ruleson had
Gone on that long voyage all men take,
And with angelic help, had once again,
By unknown waters, entered a new world.
Time waits neither for the living nor the dead, and when a month had come and gone, Margot and Christine had accepted, in some measure, their inevitable condition. Ruleson had left his small affairs beyond all dispute. His cottage was bequeathed entirely to his wife and daughter, “for all the days of their lives.” His boat was to be sold, and the proceeds given to his widow. The two hundred cash he had in the bank was also Margot’s, and the few acres of land he owned he gave to his eldest son, Norman, who had stood faithfully by his side through all his good and evil days. No one was dissatisfied except Norman’s wife, who said her man, being the eldest born, had a full right to house and cash, and a’ there was, saving Margot’s lawful widow right. She said this so often that she positively convinced herself of its rightness and justice, “and some day,” she frequently added, “I will let Mistress and Miss Ruleson know the ground on which they stand.” To Norman, she was more explicit and denunciatory—and he let her talk.
It had been very positively stated in the adoption of James Ruleson, the younger, that the simple decease of his grandfather made him the adopted son of the Domine, and it was thought best to carry out this provision without delay. Margot had been seriously ill after the funeral, and she said calmly now, that she was only waiting until her change came. But life still struggled bravely within her for its promised length, and the Domine said Death would have to take her at unawares, if he succeeded yet awhile. This was the truth. The desire to live was still strong in Margot’s heart, she really wished earnestly to live out all her days.
Now, public sympathy soon wears out. The village which had gone en masse to weep at James Ruleson’s funeral, had in two weeks chosen Peter Brodie to fill his place. The women who were now busy with their spring cleaning, and their preparations for the coming herring season, could not afford to weep any longer with “thae set-up Rulesons.” Neil had ignored all of them at the funeral, Margot’s sorrow they judged to be “a vera dry manifestation,” and Christine would not talk about her father’s last hours. The women generally disapproved of a grief that was so dry-eyed and silent.
So gradually the little house on the hill became very solitary. Jamie ran up from the school at the noon hour, and sometimes he stayed an hour or two with them after the school was closed. Then the Domine came for him, and they all had tea together. But as the evening twilight lengthened, the games in the playground lengthened, and the Domine encouraged the lad in all physical exercises likely to increase his stature and his strength.
Then the herring season came, and the Rulesons had nothing to do with it, and so they gradually lost their long preëminence. Everyone was busy from early to late with his own affairs. And the Rulesons? “Had they not their gentleman son, Neil? And their four lads wearing the Henderson uniform? And the Domine? And the lad Cluny Macpherson? Did he care for any human creature but Christine Ruleson?”
With these sentiments influencing the village society, it was no wonder that Margot complained that her friends had deserted her. She had been the leader of the village women in their protective and social societies, and there was no doubt she had been authoritative, and even at times tyrannical. But Margot did not believe she had ever gone too far. She was sure that her leniency and consideration were her great failing.
So the winter came again, and Christine looked exceedingly weary. While Ruleson lived, Margot had relied on him, she was sure that he would be sufficient, but after his death, she encouraged an unreasonable trial of various highly reputed physicians. They came to her from Edinburgh and Aberdeen, and she believed that every fresh physician was the right one. The expense of this method was far beyond the profit obtained. Yet Christine could not bear to make any protest.
And the weeks went on, and there appeared to be neither profit nor pleasure in them. The Domine watched Christine with wonder, and in the second year of her vigil, with great anxiety. “Christine will break down soon, Margot,” he said one day to the sick woman. “Look at the black shadows under her eyes. And her eyes are losing all their beauty, her figure droops, and her walk lags and stumbles. Could you not do with Faith for a few days, and let Christine get away for a change? You’ll hae a sick daughter, if you don’t do something, and that soon.”
“I canna stand Faith Anderson. She’s o’er set up wi’ hersel’. I am that full o’ pain and sorrow that Faith’s bouncing happiness is a parfect blow in a body’s face.”
“The schoolmaster’s wife?”
“I’m no a bairn, Domine; and she treats auld and young as if they were bairns. She would want to teach me my alphabet, and my catechism o’er again.”
“There’s Nannie Brodie. She is a gentle little thing. She will do all Christine does for a few shillings a week.”
“What are you thinking of, Domine? I couldna afford a few shillings a week. I hae wonderfu’ expenses wi’ doctors and medicines, and my purse feels gey light in my hand.”
“I see, Margot, that my advice will come to little. Yet consider, Margot, if Christine falls sick, who will nurse her? And what will become o’ yourself?”
He went away with the words, and he found Christine sitting on the doorstep, watching the sea, as she used to watch it for her father’s boat. She looked tired, but she smiled brightly when he called her name.
“My dear lassie,” he said, “you ought to have some new thoughts, since you are not likely to get new scenes. Have you any nice books to read?”
“No, sir. Mither stopped Chambers Magazine and The Scotsman, and I ken a’ the books we hae, as if they were school books. Some o’ them are Neil’s old readers.”
“You dear, lonely lassie! This day I will send you some grand novels, and some books of travel. Try and lose yourself and your weariness in them.”
“O, Sir! If you would do this, I can bear everything! I can do everything!”
“I’ll go home this hour, and the books will be here before dark. Get as much fresh air as you can, and fill your mind with fresh pictures, and fresh ideas, and I wouldn’t wonder if you win back your spirits, and your beauty. Your mother is a great care, lassie!”
“Ay, Doctor, but she is in God’s care. I hae naething to do but help and pleasure her, when she’s waking. She sleeps much o’ her time now. I think the medicine o’ the last doctor frae Aberdeen, is the because o’ her sleepiness. I was going to ask you to take a look at it.”
He did so, and said in reply, “There’s no harm in it, but it would be well enough to give it with a double portion of water.”
Then the Domine went away, and Christine did not know that this hour was really the turning point of her life. And it is perhaps well for the majority that this important crisis is seldom recognized on its arrival. There might be interferences, and blunderings of all kinds. But a destiny that is not realized, or meddled with, goes without let or hindrance to its appointed end.
Christine rose with a new strength in her heart and went to her mother. “Come here, dear lass,” said Margot. “The Domine was telling me thou art sick wi’ the nursing o’ me, and that thou must hae a change.”
“The Domine had no right to say such a thing. I am quite well, Mither. I should be sick, if I was one mile from you. I have no work and no pleasure away from your side, dear, dear Mither! I am sorry the Domine judged me sae hardly.”
“The Domine is an interfering auld man. He is getting outside his pulpit. When I was saying I missed wee Jamie, and I wished him to come mair often to see me, you should hae watched him bridle up. ‘James must be more under control,’ he said, in a vera pompous manner. I answered, ‘The laddie is quite biddable, Doctor,’ and he said, ‘Mistress, that belongs to his years. He is yet under authority, and I cannot allow him too much freedom.’ And the bairn is my ain! My ain grandchild! Too much freedom wi’ his sick grandmother! Heard ye ever the like?”
“Weel, Mither, he was right in a way. Jamie has been a bit stiff-necked and self-willed lately.”
“There isna a thing wrang wi’ the laddie.”
“Weel, he behaves better wi’ you than wi’ any other person. The Domine is making a fine lad o’ him.”
“He was a’ that, before the Domine kent him at a’. I wasna carin’ for the reverend this afternoon. I dinna wonder the village women are saying he has his fingers in everyone’s pie.”
“It is for everyone’s good, Mither, if it be true; but you ken fine how little the village say-so can be trusted; and less now, than ever; for since you arena able to sort their clashes, they say what they like.”
“Nae doubt o’ it, Christine.”
“The Domine promised to send me some books to read. You see, Mither, the pain you hae wearies you sae that you sleep a great deal, and I am glad o’ it, for the sleep builds up what the pain pulls down, so that you hold up your ain side better than might be.”
“That’s a plain truth, dearie.”
“Then when you sleep, I am lonely, and I get to thinking and worrying anent this and that, and so I look tired when there’s naething wrang. But if I had books to read, when I hadna yoursel’ to talk wi’, I would be gey happy, and maybe full o’ wonderfuls to tell you as you lie wakin’ and wearyful.”
“It is a maybe, and you hae to give maybes a trial.”
“You see, Mither, we gave up our Chambers Magazine and The Scotsman when Feyther left us alane.”
“It was right to do sae; there was sae many expenses, what wi’ the burying, and wi’ my sickness, the last item being a constant outgo.”
“You must hae the medicines, and we be to gie up all expenses, if so be it was needed for that end.”
“Weel, if I was to stay here, and be a troubler much langer, that might be needed, but I hae a few pounds left yet.”
“It will never be needed. The children o’ the righteous hae a sure claim on the God o’ the righteous, and He is bound and ready to answer it. Those were almost the last words Feyther said to me. I was wearying for books, and you see, He has sent them to me, without plack or bawbee.”
“Weel, lassie, if books will mak’ you happy, I am glad they are coming to you. Whiles you can read a short story out o’ Chambers to mysel’. I used to like thae little love tales, when you read one sometimes to us by the fireside. Anyway, they were mair sensible than the village clash-ma-clavers; maist o’ which are black, burning lees.”
“Dear Mither, we’ll hae many a happy hour yet, wi’ the tales I shall read to you.”
“Nae doubt o’ it. They’ll all o’ them be lees—made up lees—but the lees won’t be anent folks we ken, and think weel of, or anent oursel’s.”
“They won’t be anent anybody, Mither. The men who write the stories make up the men and women, and then make up the things they set them to do, and to say. It is all make-believe, ye ken, but many a good lesson is learned by good stories. They can teach, as well as sermons. Folks that won’t go and hear a sermon will maybe read a good story.”
“You wadna daur to read them in a kirk, for they arena the truth.”
“Weel, there are many other things you wouldna care to read in the kirk—a perfectly honest love letter, for instance.”
“When did you hear frae Cluny?”
“Yesterday. He is kept vera close to his business, and he is studying navigation, so that helps him to get the long hours in foreign ports over. He’s hoping to get a step higher at the New Year, and to be transferred to the Atlantic boats. Then he can perhaps get awa’ a little oftener. Mither, I was thinking when you got strong enough, we might move to Glasgow. You would hae a’ your lads, but Norman, mair at your hand then.”
“Ay, but Norman is worth a’ the lave o’ them, and beside if I left this dear auld hame, Norman would want to come here, and I couldna thole the thought o’ that ill luck. Yet it would be gey hard to refuse him, if he asked me, and harder still to think night and day o’ his big, blundering, rough lads, among my flower beds, and destroying everything in baith house and bounds. I couldna think o’ it! Your feyther brought me here when the house was naething at a’ but a but and a ben. A bed and a table, a few chairs, and a handfu’ o’ crockery was a’ we had in the wide warld—save and forbye, as I hae often told you, my gold wedding ring.” And Margot held up her white, shrunken hand, and looked at it with tears streaming down her face. And oh, how tenderly Christine kissed her hand and her face, and said she was right, and she did not wonder she feared Norman’s boys. They were a rough-and-tumble lot, but would make fine men, every one o’ them being born for the sea, and the fishing.
“Just sae, Christine. They’ll do fine in a fishing boat, among nets and sails. But here! Nay, nay! And then there’s the mither o’ them! That woman in my place! Can you think o’ it, lassie?”
“We’ll never speak again o’ the matter. I ken how you feel, Mither. It would be too cruel! it would be mair than you could bear.”
Then there was a man’s voice heard in the living room, and Christine went to answer the call. It was the Domine’s messenger, with his arms full of books. And Christine had them taken into her mother’s room, and for a whole hour sat beside her and showed her books full of pictures, and read short anecdotes from the magazine volume, and Margot for a while seemed interested, but finally said with an air of great weariness: “Tak’ them all awa’, dearie. Ye can hae the best bedroom for them.”
“Dear Mither, will you let me hae the use o’ it? I will keep a’ in order, and it is sae near to yoursel’, I could hear you if you only spoke my name.”
“Tak’ the room and welcome. Neil had it for many a year. It has a feeling o’ books and lesson-larning in it.”
So that night, when her mother was in her first sleep, Christine took her books into this large, silent room. It faced the sea. It had an atmosphere different from that of any other room in the house, and no one but herself was likely to enter it. There was a broad sill to the largest window, and Christine arranged the Domine’s books on it. In the dozen or more volumes there was a pleasant variety—history, poetry and the popular novels of the time—especially the best work of George Eliot, Miss Braddon, Thackeray, and Dickens.
It was all so wonderful to Christine, she could hardly believe it. She touched them lovingly, she could have kissed them. For in those days in Scotland, good literature was yet a sort of luxury. A person in a country place who had a good novel, and was willing to loan it, was a benefactor. Christine had borrowed from the schoolmaster’s wife all she had to lend, and for several weeks had been without mental food and mental outlook. Was there any wonder that she was depressed and weary-looking?
Now all quickly changed. The housework went with her as if it were paid to do so. She sang as she worked. She was running in and out of Mither’s room with unfailing cheerfulness, and Margot caught her happy tone, and they were sufficient for each other. Mother and books would have been sufficient alone, but they had also many outside ties and interests. The Domine allowed Jamie to go to grandmother’s once a day. There were Cluny and Neil, and all the rest of the boys, the Domine and the villagers, the kirk and the school; and always Jamie came in the afternoon, and brought with him the daily Glasgow Herald. It was the Domine’s way. At first he had not consciously recognized what Christine required, but as soon as the situation was evident to him, he hasted to perform the good work, and he did the duty liberally, and wearied not in it.
So the days came and went, and neither Margot nor Christine counted them, and Cluny came whenever he could by any travel get a few hours with Christine. And the herring season came and went again, and was not very successful. Margot and Christine were sorry, but it was no longer a matter of supreme importance. Still, the gossip concerning the fishing always interested Margot, and someone generally brought it to her. If no one did, she frankly asked the Domine what was going on, for he always knew everything affecting the people who sat in Culraine Kirk of Scotland.
Certainly he watched Christine’s improvement with the greatest interest and pleasure. In six months she was a far more beautiful woman than she had ever before been. Her soul was developing on the finest lines, and it was constantly beautifying its fleshly abode. The work was like that of a lapidary who, day by day, cuts and polishes a gem of great value. Even Margot occasionally looked intently at her daughter, and said wonderingly, “You are growing very bonnie, Christine, the Domine must hae lost his sight, when he thought you were sick and wearying for a change.”
“I’m never sick, Mither. Whiles, when I was worrying mysel’ anent Angus Ballister, I used to hae a dowie weariness come o’er me; but since feyther went awa’ I havena had as much as a headache. Now if it suits you, Mither, I’ll gie you your knitting, I’m wanting to go and write down something.”
“Weel, gie me the needles, and gie my love to Cluny, and tell him to bring me ane o’ them white fuchsia plants he saw in a Glasgow window.”
“I hae given that word already, Mither.”
“Do it again, lassie. Any man bides twice telling.”
But the writing Christine wished to do was not a letter to her lover. It was some lines that had been running through her mind for an hour, and she knew that the only way in which she could lay their persistency, was to write them down. She had just finished this work, when the door was opened, and the Domine came in, with a gust of wind, that blew the paper on which she was writing across the room. He caught it first, and he smiled when he saw it was poetry.
“I’ll even read it, Christine, it might be worth while.”
“I couldna help writing the lines down, Sir. They bothered me till I did sae. They always do.”
“Oh-h! Then the lines are your own. That is a circumstance I cannot pass.”
“Gie them to me, Sir. Please!”
“When I have read them, Christine,” and immediately he proceeded to read them aloud. He read them twice, the second time with care and sympathy:
“The boats rocked idly on the bay,
The nets hung straight within the deep,
On the hard deck the fishers lay,
Lost in a deep and dreamless sleep.
Why should they care, and watch, and wake—
Nets of the sleeping fishers take.
Only the sea the silence broke,
Until the Master Fisher spoke.
“O Christ, Thou must have loved the sea,
Its waves held firm Thy steady feet.
Wouldst Thou not talk of boats and nets,
If Thou some fishermen shouldst meet?
Yes, Thou wouldst speak of boats and nets,
Though walking on the golden street.
“And if, O Christ, Thou met’st some day
The Fishermen from Galilee,
Wouldst Thou not speed the hours away,
Recalling life upon their sea?
And sure their hearts would burn and thrill,
Remembering, Thy ‘Peace be still!’
“The Crystal Sea could ne’er replace
The old Earth Sea, so wild and gray—
The strain, the struggle, and the race
For daily bread, from day to day.
O Christ! we fishermen implore,
Say not, ‘The sea shall be no more.’
“Its tides have seen Thy godlike face—
Look down into its hidden graves,
Have felt Thy feet in solemn pace
Pass through the valley of its waves.
Fisher of Galilee! We pray,
Let not the Earth Sea pass away.”
“Weel, Sir, will you give me the bit paper now?”
“I want you to give it to me. In a year I should like to read it again, and see how you have improved.”
“Take your will wi’ it, Sir.”
“To write poetry teaches you how to write prose—teaches you the words of the English language, their variety and value. A good prose writer can write poetry, for he is acquainted wi’ words, and can always find the word he wants; but a good poet is not often a good prose writer.”
“How is that, Sir?”
“Because he is satisfied with his own vehicle of expression. He thinks it is the best. I am glad you have begun by writing poetry—but do not stop there.” As he was speaking he folded up the bit of paper in his hand, and put it into his pocketbook. Then he went to speak to Margot.
“Margot,” he said, “what do you think? Christine has been writing a poem, and it is better than might be.”
“Christine has been making up poetry ever since she was a bit bairn. She reads a great deal o’ poetry to me out o’ the books you sent her. Oh, Domine, they hae been a wonderfu’ pleasuring to us baith! Though I never thought I wad live to find my only pleasure in novels and bits o’ poetry. Three or four years ago I wad hae laughed anyone to scorn who said such a thing could happen to Margot Ruleson. ’Deed wad I!”
“God often brings the impossible to pass, and even nourishes us on it. What has Christine been reading to you?”
“She has read to me the doings o’ David Copperfield, and about that puir lad, Oliver Twist. I was greatly ta’en up wi’ the lads. I maist forgot mysel’, listening to their troubles and adventures.”
“Very good, Margot. What is she reading to you now?”
“A book by a Mr. Thackeray. His picture is in the book. It’s what they ca’ a frontispiece. He has a big head, and he isna handsome, but he looks like he could mak’ up a good story.”
“Is the book called ‘Vanity Fair’?”
“That’s the very name. I dinna see yet the meaning o’ it.”
“Do you like it?”
“Weel, I like the folks best that I shouldna like. There’s an auld woman in it, that I wad gie a cup o’ tea and an hour’s crack to, any day, and be glad o’ the pleasure o’ it; and there’s the girl, called Becky, that isna at a’ a kirklike girl, but I canna help liking her weel. I think I wad hae been her marrow, if I had been born and brought up as she was. I’m sure it must be gey hard for men to mak’ up the likeness o’ a real good woman—they mak’ them too good, you feel as if they should be in heaven, and mostly I find they send them there by early death, or some other disease, or mischance.”
“So you like Becky?”
“I do. There’s circumstances, Sir! They alter cases. They do that! If a woman has the fight wi’ the warld on her hands, she’ll be requiring a little o’ the deil in her, just to keep the deil out o’ her. I hope the man Thackeray has had sense enou’ to mak’ Becky come a’ right at the lang end.”
“I believe she becomes very respectable, and joins the Church of England.”
“That would be the right thing for her. I hae heard that it is a vera broad church, and that its deacons——”
“Wardens, Margot.”
“Wardens be it. I hae heard that they dinna dog its members round Sunday and work days, as our deacons do. Your ain deacons are vera officious, sir.”
“Elder James Ruleson, while he lived, saw that every kirk officer did his duty.”
“Thank you, Domine! It is good to hear his name. Everyone seems to have forgotten him—everyone.”
“He is not forgotten, Margot. His name is on nearly every page o’ the kirk books, and the school will keep his memory green. I am going to propose a Ruleson Day, and on it give all the children a holiday. Weel, Margot, here comes Christine, and I believe she has Becky in hand.” Then he turned to Christine and said, “You have taken steps on a fair road, go straight forward.” And she smiled, and her smile was like sunshine, and the Domine felt the better for it. He lifted his head higher, and took longer steps, and walked home with a new and pleasant hope in his heart.