It would be easy to walk many a time through “Fife and all the lands about it” and never once find the little fishing village of Pittendurie. Indeed, it would be a singular thing if it was found, unless some special business or direction led to it. For clearly it was never intended that human beings should build homes where these cottages cling together, between sea and sky,—a few here, and a few there, hidden away in every bend of the rocks where a little ground could be levelled, so that the tides in stormy weather break with threat and fury on the very doorstones of the lowest cottages. Yet as the lofty semicircle of hills bend inward, the sea follows; and there is a fair harbour, where the fishing boats ride together while their sails dry in the afternoon sun. Then the hamlet is very still; for the men are sleeping off the weariness of their night work, while the children play quietly among the tangle, and the women mend the nets or bait the lines for the next fishing. A lonely little spot, shut in by sea and land, and yet life is there in all its passionate variety—love and hate, jealousy and avarice, youth, with its ideal sorrows and infinite expectations, age, with its memories and regrets, and “sure and certain hope.”
The cottages also have their individualities. Although they are much of the same size and pattern, an observing eye would have picked out the Binnie cottage as distinctive and prepossessing. Its outside walls were as white as lime could make them; its small windows brightened with geraniums and a white muslin curtain; and the litter of ropes and nets and drying fish which encumbered the majority of thatches, was pleasantly absent. Standing on a little level, thirty feet above the shingle, it faced the open sea, and was constantly filled with the confused tones of its sighing surges, and penetrated by its pulsating, tremendous vitality.
It had been the home of many generations of Binnies, and the very old, and the very young, had usually shared its comforts together; but at the time of my story, there remained of the family only the widow of the last proprietor, her son Andrew, and her daughter Christina. Christina was twenty years old, and still unmarried,—a strange thing in Pittendurie, where early marriages are the rule. Some said she was vain of her beauty and could find no lad whom she thought good enough; others thought she was a selfish, cold-hearted girl, feared for the cares and the labours of a fisherman’s wife.
On this July afternoon, the girl had been some hours mending the pile of nets at her feet; but at length they were in perfect order, and she threw her arms upward and outward to relieve their weariness, and then went to the open door. The tide was coming in, but the children were still paddling in the salt pools and on the cold bladder rack, and she stepped forward to the edge of the cliff, and threw them some wild geranium and ragwort. Then she stood motionless in the bright sunlight, looking down the shingle towards the pier and the little tavern, from which came, in drowsy tones, the rough monotonous songs which seamen delight to sing—songs, full of the complaining of the sea, interpreted by the hoarse, melancholy voices of sea faring men.
Standing thus in the clear light, her great beauty was not to be denied. She was tall and not too slender; and at this moment, the set of her head was like that of a thoroughbred horse, when it pricks its ears to listen. She had soft brown eyes, with long lashes and heavy eyebrows—eyes, reflecting the lances of light that darted in and out of the shifting clouds—an open air complexion, dazzling, even teeth, an abundance of dark, rippling hair, and a flush of ardent life opening her wide nostrils, and stirring gently the exquisite mould of her throat and bust. The moral impression she gave was that of a pure, strong, compassionate woman; cool-headed, but not cold; capable of vigorous joys and griefs.
After a few minutes’ investigation, she went back to the cottage, and stood in the open doorway, with her head leaning against the lintel. Her mother had begun to prepare the evening meal; fresh fish were frying on the fire, and the oat cakes toasting before it. Yet, as she moved rapidly about, she was watching her daughter and very soon she gave words to the thoughts troubling and perplexing her motherly speculations.
“Christina,” she said, “you’ll not require to be looking for Andrew. The lad is ben the house; he has been asleep ever since he eat his dinner.”
“I know that, Mother.”
“Well then, if it is Jamie Logan, let me tell you it is a poor business. I have a fear and an inward down-sinking anent that young man.”
“Perfect nonsense, Mother! There is nothing to fear you about Jamie.”
“What good ever came through folk saved from the sea? Tell me that, Christina! They bring sorrow back with them. That is a fact none will deny.”
“What could Andrew do but save the lad?”
“Why was the lad running before such a sea? He should have got into harbour; there was time enough. And if it was Andrew’s duty to save him, it is not your duty to be loving him. You may take that much sense from me, anyway.”
“Whist, Mother! He has not said a word of love to me.”
“He perfectly changes colours every time he sees you, and why so, if it be not for love of you? I am not liking the look of the thing, Christina, and your brother is not liking it; and if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll be in a burning fever of first love, and beyond all reasoning. Even now, you are making yourself a speculation to the whole village.”
“Jamie is a straight-forward lad. I’m thinking he would lay his life down for me.”
“I thought he had not said a word of love to you.”
“A girl knows some things that are not told her.”
“Very fine; but it will not be the fashion now to lie down and die for Annie Laurie, or any other lass. A young man who wants a wife must bustle around and get siller to keep her with. Getting married, these days is not a thing to make a song about. You are but a young thing yet, Christina, and you have much to learn.”
“Would you not like to be young again, Mother?”
“No, I would not! I would not risk it. Besides, it would be going back; and I want to go forward and upward. But you need not try to turn the talk from Jamie Logan that way. I’ll say again what I said before, you will be in a fever of first love, and not to be reasoned with, if you don’t take care of yourself.”
The girl flushed hotly, came into the house, and began to re-arrange the teacups with a nervous haste; for she heard Jamie’s steps on the rocky road, and his voice, clear as a blackbird’s, whistling gayly “In the Bay of Biscay O!”
“The teacups are all right, Christina. I am talking anent Jamie Logan. The lad is just a temptation to you; and you will require to ask for strength to be kept out of temptation; for the Lord knows, the best of us don’t expect strength to resist it.”
Christina turned her face to her mother, and then left her answer to Jamie Logan. For he came in at the moment with a little tartan shawl in his hand, which he gallantly threw across the shoulders of Mistress Binnie.
“I have just bought it from a peddler loon,” he said. “It is bonnie and soft, and it sets you well, and I hope you will pleasure me by wearing it.”
His face was so bright, his manner so charming, that it was impossible for Janet Binnie to resist him. “You are a fleeching, flattering laddie,” she answered; but she stroked and fingered the gay kerchief, while Christina made her observe how bright were the colours of it, and how neatly the soft folds fell around her. Then the door of the inner room opened, and Andrew came sleepily out.
“The fish is burning,” he said, “and the oat cakes too; for I am smelling them ben the house;” and Janet ran to her fireside, and hastily turned her herring and cakes.
“I’m feared you won’t think much of your meat to-night,” she said regretfully; “the tea is fairly ruined.”
“Never mind the meat, Mother,” said Andrew. “We don’t live to eat.”
“Never mind the meat, indeed! What perfect nonsense! There is something wrong with folk that don’t mind their meat.”
“Well then, you shouldn’t be so vain of yourself, Mother. You were preening like a young girl when I first got sight of you—and the meat taking care of itself.”
“Me, vain! No! No! Nobody that knows Janet Binnie can ever say she is vain. I wot well that I am a frail, miserable creature, with little need of being vain, either for myself or my children. You are a great hand at arguing, Andrew, but you are always in the wrong. But draw to the table and eat. I’ll warrant the fish will prove better than it is bonnie.”
They sat down with a pleasant content that soon broadened into mirth and laughter, as Jamie Logan began to tell and to show how the peddler lad had fleeched and flethered the fisher wives out of their bawbees; adding at the last “that he could not come within sight of their fine words, they were that civil to him.”
“Senselessly civil, no doubt of it,” answered Janet. “A peddler aye gives the whole village a fit of the liberalities. The like of Jean Robertson spending a crown on him! Foolish woman, the words are not to seek that she’ll get from me in the morning.”
Then Jamie took a letter from his pocket, and showed it to Andrew Binnie. “Robert Toddy brought it this morning,” he said, “and, as you may see, it is from the firm of Henderson Brothers, Glasgow; and they say there will be a berth for me very soon now in one of their ships. And their boats are good, and their captains good, and there is chances for a fine sailor on that line. I may be a captain myself one of these days!” and he laughed so gayly, and looked so bravely into the face of such a bold idea, that he persuaded every one else to expect it for him. Janet pulled her new shawl a little closer and smiled, and her thought was: “After all, Christina may wait longer, and fare worse; for she is turned twenty.” Yet she showed a little reserve as she asked:—
“Are you then Glasgow-born, Jamie?”
“Me! Glasgow-born! What are you thinking of? I am from the auld East Neuk; and I am glad and proud of being a Fifer. All my common sense comes from Fife. There is none loves the ‘Kingdom’ more than I, Jamie Logan. We are all Fife together. I thought you knew it.”
At these words there was a momentary shadow across the door, and a little lassie slipped in; and when she did so, all put down their cups to welcome her. Andrew reddened to the roots of his hair, his eyes filled with light, a tender smile softened his firm mouth, and he put out his hand and drew the girl to the chair which Christina had pushed close to his own.
“You are welcome, and more than welcome, Sophy,” said the Mistress; but for all that, she gave Sophy a glance in which there was much speculation not unmixed, with fear and disapproval. For it was easy to see that Andrew Binnie loved her, and that she was not at all like him, nor yet like any of the fisher-girls of Pittendurie. Sophy, however, was not responsible for this difference; for early orphanage had placed her in the care of an aunt who carried on a dress and bonnet making business in Largo, and she had turned the little fisher-maid into a girl after her own heart and wishes.
Sophy, indeed, came frequently to visit her people in Pittendurie; but she had gradually grown less and less like them, and there was no wonder Mistress Binnie asked herself fearfully, “what kind of a wife at all Sophy would make for a Fife fisherman?” She was so small and genty, she had such a lovely face, such fair rippling hair, and her gown was of blue muslin made in the fashion of the day, and finished with a lace collar round her throat, and a ribbon belt round her slender waist.
“A bonnie lass for a carriage and pair,” thought Janet Binnie; “but whatever will she do with the creel and the nets? not to speak of the bairns and the housework?”
Andrew was too much in love to consider these questions. When he was six years old, he had carried Sophy in his arms all day long; when he was twelve, they had paddled on the sands, and fished, and played, and learned their lessons together. She had promised then to be his wife as soon as he had a house and a boat of his own; and never for one moment since had Andrew doubted the validity and certainty of this promise. To Andrew, and to Andrew’s family, and to the whole village of Pittendurie, the marriage of Andrew Binnie and Sophy Traill was a fact beyond disputing. Some said “it was the right thing,” and more said “it was the foolish thing,” and among the latter was Andrew’s mother; though as yet she had said it very cautiously to Andrew, whom she regarded as “clean daft and senselessly touchy about the girl.”
But she sent the young people out of the house while she redd up the disorder made by the evening meal; though, as she wiped her teacups, she went frequently to the little window, and looked at the four sitting together on the bit of turf which carpeted the top of the cliff before the cottage. Andrew, as a privileged lover, held Sophy’s hand; Christina sat next her brother, and facing Jamie Logan, so it was easy to see how her face kindled, and her manner softened to the charm of his merry conversation, his snatches of breezy sea-song, and his clever bits of mimicry. And as Janet walked to and fro, setting her cups and plates in the rack, and putting in place the tables and chairs she did what we might all do more frequently and be the wiser for it—she talked to herself, to the real woman within her, and thus got to the bottom of things.
In less than an hour there began to be a movement about the pier, and then Andrew and Jamie went away to their night’s work; and the girls sat still and watched the men across the level sands, and the boats hurrying out to the fishing grounds. Then they went back to the cottage, and found that Mistress Binnie had taken her knitting and gone to chat with a crony who lived higher up the cliff.
“We are alone, Sophy” said Christina; “but women folk are often that.” She spoke a little sadly, the sweet melancholy of conscious, but unacknowledged love being heavy in her heart, and she would not have been sorry, had she been quite alone with her vaguely happy dreams. Neither of the girls was inclined to talk, but Christina wondered at Sophy’s silence, for she had been unusually merry while the young men were present.
Now she sat quiet on the door step, clasping her left knee with little white hands that had no sign of labour on them but the mark of the needle on the left forefinger. At her side, Christina stood, her tall straight figure fittingly clad in a striped blue and white linsey petticoat, and a little josey of lilac print, cut low enough to show the white, firm throat above it. Her fine face radiated thought and feeling; she was on the verge of that experience which glorifies the simplest life. The exquisite glooming, the tender sky, the full heaving sea, were all in sweetest sympathy; they were sufficient; and Sophy’s thin, fretful voice broke the charm and almost offended her.
“It is a weary life, Christina. How do you thole it?”
“You are just talking, Sophy. You were happy enough half an hour since.”
“I wasn’t happy at all.”
“You let on like you were. I should think you would be as fear’d to act a lie, as to tell one.”
“I’ll be going away from Pittendurie in the morning.”
“What for?”
“I have my reasons.”
“No doubt you have a ‘because’ of your own. But what will Andrew say? He is not expecting you to leave to-morrow.”
“I don’t care what Andrew says.”
“Sophy Traill!”
“I don’t. Andrew Binnie is not the whole of life to me.”
“Whatever is the matter with you?”
“Nothing.”
Then there was a pause, and Christina’s thoughts flew seaward. In a few minutes, however, Sophy began talking again. “Do you go often into Largo, Christina?” she asked.
“Whiles, I take myself that far. You may count me up for the last year; for I sought you every time.”
“Ay! Do you mind on the road a real grand house, fine and old, with a beautiful garden and peacocks in it—trailing their long feathers over the grass and gravel?”
“You will be meaning Braelands? Folks could not miss the place, even if they tried to.”
“Well then, did you ever notice a young man around? He is always dressed for the saddle, or else he is in the saddle, and so most sure to have a whip in his hand.”
“What are you talking about? What is the young man to you?”
“He is brawly handsome. They call him Archie Braelands.”
“I have heard tell of him. And by what is said, I should not think he was an improving friend for any good girl to have.”
“This, or that, he likes me. He likes me beyond everything.”
“Do you know what you are saying, Sophy Traill?”
“I do, fine.”
“Are you liking him?”
“It would not be hard to do.”
“Has he ever spoke to you?”
“Well, he is not as shy as a fisher-lad. I find him in my way when I’m not thinking. And see here, Christina; I got a letter from him this afternoon. A real love letter! Such lovely words! They are like poetry; they are as sweet as singing.”
“Did you tell Andrew this?”
“Why would I do that?”
“You are a false little cutty, then. I would tell Andrew myself, but I am loath to hurt his true heart. Now you are to let Archie Braelands alone, or I will know the reason why.”
“Preserve us all! What a blazing passion for nothing at all! Can’t a lassie chat with a lad for a half hour without calling a court of sessions about it?” and she rose and shook out her dress, saying with an air of offence:—
“You may tell Andrew, if you like to. It would be a very poor thing if a girl is to be miscalled every time a man told her she was pretty.”
“I’m not saying any woman can help men making fools of themselves; but you should have told Braelands that you were all the same as married, being promised so long to Andrew Binnie. And you ought to have told Andrew about the letter.”
“Everybody can’t live in Pittendurie, Christina. And if you live with a town full of folk, you cannot go up and down, saying to every man you meet, ‘please, sir, I have a lad of my own, and you are not to cast a look at me, for Andrew Binnie would not like it.”
“Hold your tongue, Sophy, or else know what you are yattering about. I would think shame to talk so scornful of the man I was going to marry.”
“You can let it go for a passing remark. And if I have said anything to vex you, we are old friends, Christina, and it is not a lad that will part us. Sophy requires a deal of forgiving.”
“She does,” said Christina with a smile; “so I just forgive her as I go along, for she is still doing something out of the way. But you must not treat Andrew ill. I could not love you, Sophy, if you did the like of that. And you must always tell me everything about yourself, and then nothing will go far wrong.”
“Even that. I am not given to lying unless it is worth my while. I’ll tell you aught there is to tell. And there is a kiss for Andrew, and you may say to him that I would have told him I was going back to Largo in the morning, only that I cannot bear to see him unhappy. That a message to set him on the mast-head of pride and pleasure.”
“I will give Andrew the kiss and the message, Sophy. And you take my advice, and keep yourself clear of that young Braelands. I am particular about my own good name, and I mean to be particular about yours.”
“I have had your advice already, Christina.”
“Well, this is a forgetful world, so I just mention the fact again.”
“All the same, you might remember, Christina, that there was once a woman who got rich by minding her own business;” and with a laugh, the girl tied her bonnet under her chin, and went swiftly down the cliff towards the village.
This confidence greatly troubled Christina; and as Sophy crossed the sands and vanished into the shadows beyond, a strange, sad presentiment of calamity oppressed her heart. Being herself in the enthusiasm of a first love, she could not conceive such treachery possible as Sophy’s word seemed to imply. The girl had always been petted, and yet discontented with her situation; and had often made complaints which had no real foundation, and which in brighter moods she was likely to repudiate. And this night Andrew, instead of her Aunt Kilgour, was the object of her dissatisfaction—that would be all. To-morrow she would be complaining to Andrew of her aunt’s hard treatment of her, and Andrew would be whispering of future happiness in her ears.
Upon the whole, therefore, Christina thought it would be cruel and foolish to tell her brother a word of what Sophy had said. Why should she disturb his serene faith in the girl so dear to him, until there was some more evident reason to do so? He was, as his mother said, “very touchy” about Sophy, being well aware that the village did not approve of the changes in her dress, and of those little reluctances and reserves in her behaviour, which had sprung up inevitably amid the refinements and wider acquaintances of town life.
“And so many things happen as the clock goes round,” she thought. “Braelands may say or do something that will put him out of favour. Or he may take himself off to a foreign country—he is gey fond of France and Germany too—and Goodness knows he will never be missed in Fifeshire. Or them behind may sort what flesh and blood cannot manage; so I will keep a close mouth anent the matter. One may think what one dare not say; for words, once spoken, cannot be wiped out with a sponge—and more’s the pity!”
Christina had also reached a crisis in her own life,—a crisis so important, that it quite excused the apparent readiness with which she dismissed Sophy’s strange confidence. For the feeling between Jamie Logan and herself had grown to expression, and she was well aware that what had hitherto been in a large measure secret and private to themselves, had this night become evident to others. And she was not sure how Jamie would be received. Andrew had saved his life in a sudden storm, and brought him to the Binnie cottage until he should be able to return to his own place. But instead of going away, he had hired his time for the herring season to a Pittendurie fisherman; and every spare hour had found him at the Binnie cottage, wooing the handsome Christina.
The village was not unanimously in his favour. No one could say anything against Jamie Logan; but he was a stranger, and that fact was hard to get over. A man must serve a very strict and long probation to be adopted into a Fife fishing community, and it was considered “very upsetting” for an unkent man to be looking up to the like of Christina Binnie,—a lass whose forbears had been in Pittendurie beyond the memory or the tradition of its inhabitants.
Janet also was not quite satisfied; and Christina knew this. She expected her daughter to marry a fisherman, but at least one who owned his share in a good boat, and who had a house to take a wife to. This strange lad was handsome and good-tempered; but, as she reflected, and not unfrequently said, “good looks and a laugh and a song, are not things to lippen to for housekeeping.” So, on the whole, Christina had just the same doubts and anxieties as might trouble a fine lady of family and wealth, who had fallen in love with some handsome fellow whom her relatives were uncertain about favouring.
A week after Sophy’s visit, however, Jamie found the unconquerable hour in which every true love comes to its blossoming. It was the Sabbath night, and a great peace was over the village. The men sat at their doors talking in monosyllables to their wives and mates; the children were asleep; and the full ocean breaking and tinkling upon the shingly coast. They had been at kirk together in the afternoon, and Jamie had taken tea with the Binnies after the service. Then Andrew had gone to see Sophy, and Janet to help a neighbour with a sick husband; so Jamie, left with Christina, had seized gladly his opportunity to teach her the secret of her own heart.
Sitting on the lonely rocks, with the moonlit sea at their feet, they had confessed to each other how sweet it was to love. And the plans growing out of this confession, though humble enough, were full of strange hope and happy dreaming to Christina. For Jamie had begged her to become his wife as soon as he got his promised berth on the great Scotch line, and this event would compel her to leave Pittendurie and make her home in Glasgow,—two facts, simply stupendous to the fisher-girl, who had never been twenty miles from her home, and to whom all life outside the elementary customs of Pittendurie was wonderful and a little frightsome.
But she put her hand in Jamie’s hand, and felt his love sufficient for whatever love might bring or demand. Any spot on earth would be heaven to her with him, and for him; and she told him so, and was answered as women love to be answered, with a kiss that was the sweetness and confidence of all vows and promises. Among these simple, straight-forward people, there are no secrecies in love affairs; and the first thing Jamie did was to return to the cottage with Christina to make known the engagement they had entered into.
They met Andrew on the sands. He had been disappointed. Sophy had gone out with a friend, and her aunt had seemed annoyed and had not asked him to wait. He was counting up in his mind how often this thing had happened lately, and was conscious of an unhappy sense of doubt and unkindness which was entirely new to him. But when Christina stepped to his side, and Jamie said frankly, “Andrew, your dear sweet sister loves me, and has promised to be my wife, and I hope you will give us the love and favour we are seeking,” Andrew looked tenderly into his sister’s face, and their smiles met and seemed to kiss each other. And he took her hand between his own hands, and then put it into Jamie’s.
“You shall be a brother to me, Jamie,” he said; “and we will stand together always, for the sake of our bonnie Christina.” And Jamie could not speak for happiness; but the three went forward with shining eyes and linked hands, and Andrew forgot his own fret and disappointment, in the joy of his sister’s betrothal.
Janet came home as they sat in the moonlight outside the cottage. “Come into the house,” she cried, with a pretense of anger. “It is high time for folk who have honest work for the morn to be sleeping. What hour will you get to the week’s work, I wonder, Christina? If I leave the fireside for a minute or two, everything stops but daffing till I get back again. What for are you sitting so late?”
“There is a good reason, Mother!” said Andrew, as he rose and with Jamie and Christina went into the cottage. “Here is our Christina been trysting herself to Jamie, and I have been giving them some good advice.”
“Good advice!” laughed Janet. “Between you and Jamie Logan, it is the blind leading the blind, and nothing better. One would think there was no other duty in life than trysting and marrying. I have just heard tell of Flora Thompson and George Buchan, and now it is Christina Binnie and Jamie Logan. The world is given up, I think, to this weary lad and lass business.”
But Janet’s words belied her voice and her benign face. She was really one of those delightful women who are “easily persuaded,” and who readily accept whatever is, as right. For she had naturally one of the healthiest of human souls; besides which, years had brought her that tender sagacity and gentleness, which does not often come until the head is gray and the brow furrowed. So, though her words were fretful, they were negatived by her beaming smile, and by the motherly fashion in which she drew Christina to her side and held out her hand to Jamie.
“You are a pair of foolish bairns,” she said; “and you little know what will betide you both.”
“Nothing but love and happiness, Mother,” answered Jamie.
“Well, well! look for good, and have good. I will not be one to ask after evil for you. But mind one thing, Jamie, you are marrying a woman, and not an angel. And, Christina, if you trust to any man, don’t expect over much of him; the very best of them will stumble once in a while.”
Then she drew forward the table, and put on the kettle and brewed some toddy, and set it out with toasted cake and cheese, and so drank, with cheerful moderation, to the health and happiness of the newly-promised lovers. And afterwards “the books” were opened, and Andrew, who was the priest of the family, asked the blessing of the Infinite One on all its relationships. Then the happiness that had been full of smiles and words became too deep for such expression, and they clasped hands and kissed each other “good night” in a silence, that was too sweetly solemn and full of feeling for the translation of mere language.
Before the morning light, Mistress Binnie had fully persuaded herself that Christina was going to make an unusually prosperous marriage. All her doubts had fled. Jamie had spoken out like a man, he had the best of prospects, and the wedding was likely to be something beyond a simple fisherman’s bridal. She could hardly wait until the day’s work was over, and the evening far enough advanced for a gossiping call on her crony, Marget Roy. Last night she had fancied Marget told her of Flora Thompson’s betrothal with an air of pity for Christina; there was now a delightful retaliation in her power. But she put on an expression of dignified resignation, rather than one of pleasure, when she made known the fact of Christina’s approaching marriage.
“I am glad to hear tell of it,” said Marget frankly. “Christina will make a good wife, and she will keep a tidy house, I’ll warrant her.”
“She will, Marget. And it is a very important thing; far more so than folks sometimes think. You may put godliness into a woman after she is a wife, but you can not put cleanliness; it will have to be born in her.”
“And so Jamie Logan is to have a berth from the Hendersons? That is far beyond a place in Lowrie’s herring boats.”
“I’m thinking he just stopped with Lowrie for the sake of being near-by to Christina. A lad like him need not have spent good time like that.”
“Well, Janet, it is a good thing for your Christina, and I am glad of it.”
“It is;” answered Janet, with a sigh and a smile. “The lad is sure to get on; and he’s a respectable lad—a Fifer from Kirkcaldy—handsome and well-spoken of; and I am thinking the Line has a big bargain in him, and is proud of it. Still, I’m feared for my lassie, in such an awful, big, wicked-like town as Glasgow.”
“She’ll not require to take the whole town in. She will have her Bible, and her kirk, and her own man. There is nothing to fear you. Christina has her five senses.”
“No doubt. And she is to have a floor of her own and all things convenient; so there is comfort and safety in the like of that.”
“What for are you worrying yourself then?”
“There’s contingencies, Marget,—contingencies. And you know Christina is my one lassie, and I am sore to lose her. But ‘lack a day! we cannot stop the clock. And marriage is like death—it is what we must all come to.”
“Well Janet, your Christina has been long spared from it. She’ll be past twenty, I’m thinking.”
“Christina has had her offers, Marget. But what will you? We must all wait for the right man, or go to the de’il with the wrong one.”
Thus the conversation went on, until Janet had exhausted all the advantages and possibilities that were incident to Christina’s good fortune. And perhaps it was out of a little feeling of weariness of the theme, that Marget finally reminded her friend that she would be “lonely enough wanting her daughter,” adding, “I was hearing too, that Andrew is not to be kept single much longer; and it will be what no one expects if Sophy Traill ever fills Christina’s shoes.”
“Sophy is well enough,” answered Janet with a touch of pride. “She suits Andrew, and it is Andrew that has to live with her.”
“And you too, Janet?”
“Not I! Andrew is to build his own bigging. I have the life rent of mine. But I shall be a deal in Glasgow myself. Jamie has his heart fairly set on that.”
She made this statement with an air of prideful satisfaction that was irritating to Mistress Roy; and she was not inclined to let Janet enter anew into a description of all the fine sights she was to see, the grand guns of preachers she was to hear, and the trips to Greenock and Rothesay, which Jamie said “would just fall naturally in the way of their ordinary life.” So Marget showed such a hurry about her household affairs as made Janet uncomfortable, and she rose with a little offence and said abruptly:—
“I must be going. I have the kirkyard to pass; and between the day and the dark it is but a mournful spot.”
“It is that,” answered Marget. “Folks should not be on the road when the bodiless walk. They might be in their way, and so get ill to themselves.”
“Then good night, and good befall you;” but in spite of the benediction, Janet felt nettled at her friend’s sudden lack of interest.
“It was a spat of envy no doubt,” she thought; “but Lord’s sake! envy is the most insinuating vice of the lot of them. It cannot behave itself for an hour at a time. But I’m not caring! it is better to be envied than pitied.”
These reflections kept away the thought and fear of the “bodiless,” and she passed the kirkyard without being mindful of their proximity; the coming wedding, and the inevitable changes it would bring, filling her heart with all kinds of maternal anxieties, which in solitude would not be put aside for all the promised pride and eclat of the event. As she approached the cottage, she met Jamie and Christina coming down the cliff-side together, and she cried, “Is that you, Jamie?”
“As far as I know, it’s myself, Mother,” answered Jamie.
“Then turn back, and I’ll get you a mouthful of bread and cheese. You’ll be wanting it, no doubt; for love is but cold porridge to a man that has to pull on the nets all night.”
“You have spoken the day after the fair, Mother,” answered Jamie. “Christina has looked well to me, and I am bound for the boats.”
“Well, well, your way be it.”
Then Christina turned back with her mother, and they went silently back to the cottage, their hearts being busy with the new hopes and happiness that had come into their hitherto uneventful lives. But reticence between this mother and daughter was not long possible; they were too much one to have reserves; and neither being sleepy, they soon began to talk over again what they had discussed a hundred times before—the wedding dress, and the wedding feast, and the napery and plenishing Christina was to have for her own home. They sat on the hearth, before the bit of fire which was always necessary in that exposed and windy situation; but the door stood open, and the moon filled the little room with its placid and confidential light. So it is no wonder, as they sat talking and vaguely wondering at Andrew’s absence, Christina should tell her mother what Sophy had said about Archie Braelands.
Janet listened with a dour face. For a moment she was glad; then she lifted the poker, and struck a block of coal into a score of pieces, and with the blow scattered the unkind, selfish thoughts which had sprung up in her heart.
“It is what I expected,” she answered. “Just what I expected, Christina. A lassie dressed up in muslin, and ribbons, and artificial roses, isn’t the kind of a wife a fisherman wants—and sooner or later, like goes to like. I am not blaming Sophy. She has tried hard to be faithful to Andrew, but what then? Nothing happens for nothing; and it will be a good thing for Andrew if Sophy leaves him; a good thing for Sophy too, I’m thinking; and better is better, whatever comes or goes.”
“But Andrew will fret himself sorely.”
“He will; no doubt of that. But Andrew has a good heart, and a good heart breaks bad fortune. Say nothing at all to him. He is wise enough to guide himself; though God knows! even the wisest of men will have a fool in his sleeve sometimes.”
“Would there be any good in a word of warning? Just to prepare him for the sorrow that is on the road.”