Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl Part 36

"But, Mither dear, there's a wind from the north blowing in savage gusts, and the black seas tumble wild and high, and send clouds of spindrift to smother the auld boat."

"Weel, weel! She'll give to the squalls, and it's vera near the turn o' the tide, then the wind will gae down, as the sea rises. The bit storm will tak' itsel' off in a heavy mist and a thick smur, nae doubt o' it."

"And Norman will know all this."

"Ay, will he! Norman is a wonderfu' man, for a' perteening to his duty."

Then the door opened, and one of the Brodie boys gave Christine two letters. "I thought ye wad be glad o' them this gloomy day," he said to Christine.

"Thank you, Alick! You went a bit out o' your road to pleasure us."

"That's naething. Gude morning! I am in a wee hurry, there's a big game in the playground this afternoon." With these words the boy was gone, and Christine stood with the letters in her hand. One was from Cluny, and she put it in her breast, the other was from Roberta, and she read it aloud to her mother. It was dated New Orleans, and the first pages of the letter consisted entirely of a description of the place and her perfect delight in its climate and social life.

Margot listened impatiently. "I'm no carin' for that information, Christine," she said. "Why is Roberta in New Orleans? What is she doing in a foreign land, and nae word o' Neil in the circ.u.mstance."

"I am just coming to that, Mither." Then Christine read carefully Roberta's long accusation of her husband's methods. Margot listened silently, and when Christine ceased reading, did not express any opinion.

"What do ye think, Mither?"

"I'll hae to hear Neil's side, before I can judge. When she was here, she said naething against Neil."

"She did not name him at all. I noticed that."

"Put her letter awa' till we get Neil's story. I'll ne'er blame my lad before I hae heard his side o' the wrang. I'm disappointed in Roberta.

Wives shouldna speak ill o' their husbands. It isna lawfu', and it's vera unwise."

"The faults she names are quite in the line o' Neil's faults."

"Then it's a gude thing he was keepit out o' the ministry. The Maraschal was gude enough. I'm thinking all the lad's faults are quite in the line o' the law. Put the letter awa'. I'm not going to tak' it into my consideration, till Neil has had his say-so. Let us hae a good day wi' a book, Christine."

"So we will, Mither. I'll red up the house, and read my letter, and be wi' you."

"Some wee, short love stories and poems, and the like. That verse you read me a week syne, anent the Lord being our shepherd, is singing in my heart and brain, even the now. It was like as if the Lord had but one sheep, and I mysel' was that one. Gie me my crochet wark, and I will listen to it, until you are through wi' your little jobs."

The day grew more and more stormy, but these two women made their own sunshine, for Margot was now easy and pleasant to live with. Nothing was more remarkable than the change that had taken place in her. Once the most masterful, pa.s.sionate, plain-spoken woman in the village, she had become, in the school of affliction and loss, as a little child, and the relations between herself and Christine had been in many cases almost reversed. She now accepted the sweet authority of Christine with pleasure, and while she held tenaciously to her own likings and opinions, she no longer bluffed away the opinions of others with that verbal contempt few were able to reply to. Her whole nature had sweetened, and risen into a mental and spiritual region too high for angry or scornful personalities.

Her physical failure and decay had been very slow, and at first exceedingly painful, but as her strength left her, and her power to resist and struggle was taken away with it, she had traveled through the Valley of the Shadow of Death almost cheerfully, for the Lord was with her, and her own dear daughter was the rod that protected, and the staff that comforted her.

They had a day of wonderful peace and pleasure, and after they had had their tea, and Margot had been prepared for the night, Christine had a long sweet session with her regarding her own affairs. She told her mother that Cluny was coming to see her anent their marriage. "He really thinks, Mither, he can be a great help and comfort to us baith," she said, "and it is but three or four days in a month he could be awa' from the ship."

"Do you want him here, dearie?"

"It would be a great pleasure to me, Mither. I spend many anxious hours about Cluny, when the weather is bad." And Margot remembered how rarely she spoke of this anxiety, or indeed of Cluny at all. For the first time she seemed to realize the girl's unselfish love, and she looked at Christine with eyes full of tears, and said:

"Write and tell Cluny to come hame. He is welcome, and I'll gie ye baith my blessing!" And Christine kissed and twice kissed her mother, and in that hour there was a great peace in the cottage.

This concession regarding Cluny was the breaking down of Margot's last individual bulwark. Not by a.s.sault, or even by prudence, was it taken.

A long service of love and patience made the first breach, and then Christine's sweet, uncomplaining reticence about her lover and her own hopes threw wide the gates, and the enemy was told to "come hame and welcome." It was a great moral triumph, it brought a great satisfaction, and after her surrender, Margot fell into a deep, restful sleep, and Christine wrote a joyful letter to Cluny, and began to calculate the number of days that must wear away before Cluny would receive the happy news.

A few days after this event Christine began to read to her mother "Lady Audley's Secret," and she was much astonished to find her sleepy and indifferent. She continued in this mood for some days, and when she finally threw off this drowsy att.i.tude, Christine noticed a very marked change. What had taken place during that somnolent pause in life? Had the silver cord been loosed, or the golden bowl broken, or the pitcher broken at the fountain? Something had happened beyond human ken, and though Margot made no complaint, and related no unusual experience, Christine knew that her spirit was ready to return unto G.o.d who gave it. And she said to herself:

"As I work, my heart must watch, For the door is on the latch, In her room; And it may be in the morning, He will come."

In the afternoon little Jamie came in, and Christine told him to go very quietly to his grandmother, and speak to her. She smiled when he did so, and slowly opened her eyes. "Good-by, Jamie," she said. "Be a good boy, be a good man, till I see ye again."

"I will, Grandmother. I will! I promise you."

"What do you think o' her, Jamie?" asked Christine.

"I think she is dying, Auntie."

"Go hame as quick as you can, and tell your feyther to come, and not to lose a minute. Tell him he must bring the Cup wi' him, or I'm feared he'll be too late."

The Domine's voice roused Margot a little. She put out her trembling hand, and the likeness of a smile was on her face. "Is He come?" she asked.

"Only a few more shadows, Margot, and He will come. I have brought the Cup with me, Margot. Will you drink the Wine of Remembrance now?"

"Ay, will I--gladly!"

The Domine and Christine ate and drank the sacred meal with her, and after it she seemed clearer and better, and the Domine said to her, "Margot, you will see my dear old friend, James Ruleson, very soon now. Will you tell him I send him my love? Will you tell him little Jamie is my son now, and that he is going to make the name of James Ruleson stand high in the favor of G.o.d and man?"

"I'll tell him a' anent Jamie--and anent Christine, too."

"The dead wait and long for news of the living they love. Someway, sooner or later, good news will find them out, and make even heaven happier. Farewell, Margot!"

Later in the evening there came that decided lightening which so often precedes death. Margot asked for Norman, and while he knelt beside her, she gave him some instructions about her burial, and charged him to stand by his sister Christine. "She'll be her lane," she said, "'til my year is gane by, and the warld hates a lone woman who fends for hersel'. Stay wi' Christine tonight. Tell Christine to come to me."

When Christine was at her side, she asked, "Do you remember the verses in the wee, green book?"

"Called 'Coming'?"

"Ay"--and she added very slowly the first few words she wished to hear--"It may be when the midnight----"

"Is heavy upon the land, And the black waves lying dumbly Along the sand, When the moonless night draws close, And the lights are out in the house, When the fires burn low and red, And the watch is ticking loudly, Beside the bed.

Though you sleep tired out, on your couch Still your heart must wake and watch, In the dark room.

For it may be that at midnight, I will come."

And then Norman said solemnly, "In such an hour as you think not, He will come."

About ten o'clock Christine caught an anxious look in her eyes, and she asked, "What is it, Mither, dear Mither?"

"Neil!" she answered. "Did ye send for the lad?"

"Three days ago."

"When he does come, gie him the words I send him. You ken what they are."

"I will say and do all you told me."