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A Knight of the Nets

by Amelia E. Barr · English · Gutenberg #9374 · 390,696 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: A Knight of the Nets

Author: Amelia E. Barr


        
Release date: November 1, 2005 [eBook #9374]
                Most recently updated: September 9, 2012

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A KNIGHT OF THE NETS ***




Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Tonya Allen and PG
Distributed Proofreaders, from images generously made
available by the Canadian Institute for Historical
Microreproductions.











A KNIGHT OF THE NETS

BY

AMELIA E. BARR


1896




CONTENTS.

CHAPTER


I    THE WORLD SHE LIVED IN.

II   CHRISTINA AND ANDREW.

III  THE AILING HEART.

IV   THE LASH OF THE WHIP.

V    THE LOST BRIDE.

VI   WHERE IS MY MONEY?

VII  THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

VIII A GREAT DELIVERANCE.

IX   THE RIGHTING OF A WRONG.

X    TAKE ME IN TO DIE.

XI   DRIVEN TO HIS DUTY.

XII  AMONG HER OWN PEOPLE.

XIII THE "LITTLE SOPHY".



_Grey sky, brown waters: as a bird that flies
  My heart flits forth to these;
Back to the winter rose of Northern skies,
  Back to the Northern seas_.




CHAPTER I

THE WORLD SHE LIVED IN


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.




CHAPTER II

CHRISTINA AND ANDREW


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."

"There would be no sense in the like of it. If Andrew is to get the
fling and the buffet, he will take it better from Sophy than from any
other body. Let be, Christina. And maybe things will take a turn for
the dear lad yet. Hope for it anyhow. Hope is as cheap as despair."

"Folks will be talking anon."

"They are talking already. Do you think that I did not hear all this
clash and clavers before? Lucky Sims, and Marget Roy, and every
fish-wife in Pittendurie, know both the beginning and the end of it.
They have seen this, and they have heard that, and they think the very
worst that can be; you may be sure of that."

"I'm thinking no wrong of Sophy."

"Nor I. The first calamity is to be born a woman; it sets the door open
for every other sorrow--and the more so, if the poor lassie is bonnie
and alone in the world. Sophy is not to blame; it is Andrew that is in
the fault."

"How can you say such a thing as that, Mother?"

"I'll tell you how. Andrew has been that set on having a house for his
wife, that he has just lost the wife while he was saving the siller for
the house. I have told him, and better told him to bring Sophy here;
but nothing but having her all to himself will he hear tell of. It is
pure, wicked selfishness in the lad! He simply cannot thole her to give
look or word to any one but himself. Perfect scand'lous selfishness!
That is where all the trouble has come from."

"_Whist, Mother_! He is most at the doorstep. That is Andrew's foot, or
I am much mista'en."

"Then I'll away to Lizzie Robertson's for an hour. My heart is knocking
at my lips, and I'll be saying what I would give my last bawbee to
unsay. Keep a calm sough, Christina."

"You need not tell me that, Mother."

"Just let Andrew do the talking, and you'll be all right. It is easy to
put him out about Sophy, and then to come to words. Better keep peace
than make peace."

She lifted the stocking she was knitting, and passed out of one door as
Andrew came in at the other. He entered with that air of strength and
capability so dear to the women of a household. He had on his kirk
suit, and Christina thought, as he sat down by the open window, how
much handsomer he looked in his blue guernsey and fishing cap.

"You'll be needing a mouthful and a cup of tea, Andrew?" she asked.

Andrew shook his head and answered pleasantly, "Not I, Christina. I had
my tea with Sophy. Where is mother?"

"She is gone to Lizzie Robertson's for an hour. Her man is yet very
badly off. She said she would sit with him till the night turned.
Lizzie is most worn out, I'm sure, by this time."

"Where is Jamie?"

"He said he was going to the fishing. He will have caught his boat, or
he would have been back here again by this hour."

"Then we are alone? And like to be for an hour? eh, Christina?"

"There will be no one here till mother comes at the turn of the night.
What for are you asking the like of them questions, Andrew?"

"Because I have been seeking this hour. I have things to tell you,
Christina, that must never go beyond yourself; no, not even to mother,
unless the time comes for it. I am not going to ask you to give me your
word or promise. You are Christina Binnie, and that is enough."

"I should say so. The man or woman who promises with an oath is not to
be trusted. There is you and me, and God for our witness. What ever you
have to say, the hearer and the witness is sufficient."

"I know that. Christina, I have been this day to Edinburgh, and I have
brought home from the bank six hundred pounds."

"Six hundred pounds, Andrew! It is not believable."

"_Whist, woman!_ I have six hundred pounds in my breast pocket, and I
have siller in the house beside. I have sold my share in the
'_Sure-Giver_,' and I have been saving money ever since I put on my
first sea-boots."

"I have always thought that saving money was your great fault, Andrew."

"I know. I know it myself only too well. Many's the Sabbath day I have
been only a bawbee Christian, when I ought to have put a shilling in
the plate. But I just could not help it."

"Yes, you could."

"Tell me how, then."

"Just try and believe that you are putting your collection into the
hand of God Almighty, and not into a siller plate. Then you will put
the shilling down and not the bawbee."

"Perhaps. The thought is not a new one to me, and often I have forced
myself to give a white shilling instead of a penny-bit at the kirk
door, just to get the better of the de'il once in a while. But for all
that I know right well that saving siller is my besetting sin. However,
I have been saving for a purpose, and now I am most ready to take the
desire of my heart."

"It is a good desire; I am sure of that, Andrew."

"I think it is; a very good one. What do you say to this? I am going to
put all my siller in a carrying steamer--one of the Red-White fleet.
And more to it. I am to be skipper, and sail her from the North Sea to
London."

"Will she be a big boat, Andrew?"

"She will carry three thousand 'trunks' of fish in her ice chambers.
What do you think of that?"

"I am perfectly dazzled and dumbfoundered with the thought of it. You
will be a man of some weight in the world, when that comes to pass."

"I will be Captain Binnie, of the North Sea fleet, and Sophy will have
reason enough for her muslins, and ribbons, and trinkum-trankums--God
bless her!"

"You are a far forecasting man, Andrew."

"I have been able to clear my day and my way, by the help of
Providence, so far," said Andrew, with a pious reservation; "just as my
decent kirk-going father was before me. But that is neither here nor
there, and please God, this will be a monumental year in my life."

"It will that. To get the ship and the wife you want, within its twelve
bounds, is a blessing beyond ordinary. I am proud to hear tell of such
good fortune coming your way, Andrew."

"Ay; I knew you would. But I have the siller, and I have the skill, and
why shouldn't I lift myself a bit?"

"And Sophy with you? Sophy will be an ornament to any place you lift
her to. And you may come to own a fishing fleet yourself some day,
Andrew!"

"I am thinking of it," he answered, with the air of a man who feels
himself master of his destiny. "But come ben the house with me,
Christina. I have something to show you."

So they went together into an inner room, and Andrew moved aside a
heavy chest of drawers which stood against the wall. Then he lifted a
short plank beneath them, and putting his arm far under the flooring,
he pulled forth a tin box.

The key to it was in the leather purse in his breast pocket, and there
was a little tantalizing delay in its opening. But when the lid was
lifted, Christina saw a hoard of golden sovereigns, and a large roll of
Bank of England bills. Without a word Andrew added the money in his
pocket to this treasured store, and in an equal silence the flooring
and drawers were replaced, and then, without a word, the brother and
sister left the room together.

There was however a look of exultation on Christina's face, and when
Andrew said "You understand now, Christina?" she answered in a voice
full of tender pride.

"I have seen. And I am sure that Andrew Binnie is not the man to be
moving without knowing the way he is going to take."

"I am not moving at all, Christina, for three months or perhaps longer.
The ship I want is in dry dock until the winter, and it is all this
wealth of siller that I am anxious about. If I should go to the fishing
some night, and never come back, it would be the same as if it went to
the bottom of the sea with me, not a soul but myself knowing it was
there."

"But not now, Andrew. You be to tell me what I am to do if the like of
that should happen, and your wish will be as the law of God to me."

"I am sure of that, Christina. Take heed then. If I should go out some
night and the sea should get me, as it gets many better men, then you
will lift the flooring, and take the money out of hiding. And you will
give Sophy Traill one half of all there is. The other half is for
mother and yourself. And you will do no other way with a single bawbee,
or the Lord will set His face against it."

"I will do just what you tell me."

"I know it. To think different, would be just incredible nonsense. That
is for the possibilities, Christina. For the days that are coming and
going, I charge you, Christina Binnie, never to name to mortal creature
the whereabouts of the money I have shown you."

"Your words are in my heart, Andrew. They will never pass my lips."

"Then that is enough of the siller. I have had a happy day with Sophy,
and O the grace of the lassie! And the sweet innocence and lovesomeness
of her pretty ways! She is budding into a very rose of beauty! I bought
her a ring with a shining stone in it, and a gold brooch, and a bonnie
piece of white muslin with the lace for the trimming of it; and the joy
of the little beauty set me laughing with delight. I would not call the
Queen my cousin, this night."

"Sophy ought to love you with all her heart and soul, Andrew."

"She does. She has arled her heart and hand to me. I thank _The Best_
for this great mercy."

"And you can trust her without a doubt, dear lad?"

"I have as much faith in Sophy Traill, as I have in my Bible."

"That is the way to trust. It is the way I trust Jamie. But you'll mind
how ready bad hearts and ill tongues are to give you a sense of
suspicion. So you'll not heed a word of that kind, Andrew?"

"Not one. The like of such folk cannot give me a moment's
trouble--there was Kirsty Johnston--"

"You may put Kirsty Johnston, and all she says to the wall."

"I'm doing it; but she called after me this very evening, 'take care of
yourself, Andrew Binnie.' 'And what for, Mistress?' I asked. 'A beauty
is hard to catch and worse to keep,' she answered; and then the laugh
of her! But I didn't mind it, not I; and I didn't give her word or look
in reply; for well I know that women's tongues cannot be stopped, not
even by the Fourth Commandment."

Then Andrew sat down and was silent, for a happiness like his is felt,
and not expressed. And Christina moved softly about, preparing the
frugal supper, and thinking about her lover in the fishing boats,
until, the table being spread, Andrew drew his chair close to his
sister's chair, and spreading forth his hands ere he sat down, said
solemnly;--

_"This is the change of Thy Right Hand, O Thou Most High! Thou art
strong to strengthen; gracious to help; ready to better; mighty to
save, Amen!"_

It was the prayer of his fathers for centuries--the prayer they had
used in all times of their joy and sorrow; the prayer that had grown in
his own heart from his birth, and been recorded for ever in the sagas
of his mother's people.




CHAPTER III

THE AILING HEART


Not often in her life had Christina felt so happy as she did at this
fortunate hour. Two things especially made her heart sing for joy; one
was the fact that Jamie had never been so tender, so full of joyful
anticipation, so proud of his love and his future, as in their
interview of that evening. The very thought of his beauty and goodness
made her walk unconsciously to the door, and look over the sea towards
the fishing-grounds, where he was doubtless working at the nets, and
thinking of her. And next to this intensely personal cause of
happiness, was the fact that of all his mates, and even before his
mother or Sophy, Andrew had chosen _her_ for his confidant. She loved
her brother very much, and she respected him with an equal fervour. Few
men, in Christina's opinion, were able to stand in Andrew Binnie's
shoes, and she felt, as she glanced at his strong, thoughtful face,
that he was a brother to be very proud of.

He sat on the hearth with his arms crossed above his head, and a sweet,
grave smile irradiating his strong countenance, Christina knew that he
was thinking of Sophy, and as soon as she had spread the frugal meal,
and they had sat down to their cakes and cheese, Andrew began to talk
of her. He seemed to have dismissed absolutely the thought of the
hidden money, and to be wholly occupied with memories of his love. And
as he talked of her, his face grew vivid and tender, and he spoke like
a poet, though he knew it not.

"She is that sweet, Christina, it is like kissing roses to kiss her.
Her wee white hand on my red face is like a lily leaf. I saw it in the
looking-glass, as we sat at tea. And the ring, with the shining stone,
set it finely. I am the happiest man in the world, Christina!"

"I am glad with all my heart for you, Andrew, and for Sophy too. It is
a grand thing to be loved as you love her."

"She is the sweetness of all the years that are gone, and of all that
are to come."

"And Sophy loves you as you love her? I hope she does that, my dear
Andrew."

"She will do. She will do! no doubt of it, Christina! She is shy now,
and a bit frighted at the thought of marriage--she is such a gentle
little thing--but I will make her love me; yes I will! I will make her
love me as I love her. What for not?"

"To be sure. Love must give and take equal, to be satisfied. I know
that myself. I am loving Jamie just as he loves me."

"He is a brawly fine lad. Peddie was saying there wasn't a better
worker, nor a merrier one, in the whole fleet."

"A good heart is always a merry one, Andrew."

"I'm not doubting it."

Thus they talked with kind mutual sympathy and confidence; and a
certain sweet serenity and glad composure spread through the little
room, and the very atmosphere was full of the peace and hope of
innocent love. But some divine necessity of life ever joins joy and
sorrow together; and even as the brother and sister sat speaking of
their happiness, Christina heard a footstep that gave her heart a
shock. Andrew was talking of Sophy, and he was not conscious of Jamie's
approach until the lad entered the house. His face was flushed, and
there was an air of excitement about him which Andrew regarded with an
instant displeasure and suspicion. He did not answer Jamie's greeting,
but said dourly:--

"You promised to take my place in the boat to-night, Jamie Logan; then
what for are you here, at this hour? I see one thing, and that is, you
cannot be trusted to."

"I deserve a reproof, Andrew, for I have earned it," answered Jamie;
and there was an air of candid regret in his manner which struck
Christina, but which was not obvious to Andrew as he added, "I'll not
lie to you, anent the matter."

"You needn't. Nothing in life is worth a lie."

"That may be, or not be. But it was just this way. I met an old friend
as I was on my way to the boat, and he was poor, and hungry, and
thirsty, and I be to take him to the 'public,' and give him a bite and
a sup. Then the whiskey set us talking of old times and old
acquaintances, and I clean forgot the fishing; and the boats went away
without me. And that is all there is to it."

"Far too much! Far too much! A nice lad you will be to trust to in a
big ship full of men and women and children! A glass of whiskey, and a
crack in the public house, set before your promised word and your duty!
How will I trust Christina to you? When you make Andrew Binnie a
promise, he expects you to keep it. Don't forget that! It may be of
some consequence to you if you are wanting his sister for a wife."

With these words Andrew rose, went into his own room without a word of
good-night, and with considerable show of annoyance, closed and bolted
the door behind him. Jamie sat down by Christina, and waited for her to
speak.

But it was not easy for her to do so. Try as she would, she could not
show him the love she really felt. She was troubled at his neglect of
duty, and so sorry that he, of all others, should have been the one to
cast the first shadow across the bright future which she had been
anticipating before his ill-timed arrival. It was love out of time and
season, and lacked the savour and spontaneity which are the result of
proper conditions. Jamie felt the unhappy atmosphere, and was offended.

"I'm not wanted here, it seems," he said in a tone of injury.

"You are wanted in the boat, Jamie; that is where the fault lies. You
should have been there. There is no outgait from that fact."

"Well then, I have said I was sorry. Is not that enough?"

"For me, yes. But Andrew likes a man to be prompt and sure in business.
It is the only way to make money."

"Make money! I can make money among Andrew Binnie's feet, for all he
thinks so much of himself. A friend's claims are before money-making.
I'll stand to that, till all the seas go dry."

"Andrew has very strict ideas; you must have found that out, Jamie, and
you should not go against them."

"Andrew is headstrong as the north-wind. He goes clear o'er the bounds
both sides. Everything is the very worst, or the very best. I'm not
denying I was a bit wrong; but I consider I had a good excuse for it."

"Is there ever a good excuse for doing wrong, Jamie? But we will let
the affair drop out of mind and talk. There are pleasanter things to
speak of, I'm sure."

But the interview was a disappointment. Jamie went continually back to
Andrew's reproof, and Christina herself seemed to be under a spell. She
could not find the gentle words that would have soothed her lover, her
manner became chill and silent; and Jamie finally went away, much hurt
and offended. Yet she followed him to the door, and watched him kicking
the stones out of his path as he went rapidly down the cliff-side. And
if she had been near enough, she would have heard him muttering
angrily:--

"I'm not caring! I'm not caring! The moral pride of they Binnies is
ridic'lus! One would require to be a very saint to come within sight of
them."

Such a wretched ending to an evening that had begun with so much hope
and love! Christina stood sadly at the open door and watched her lover
across the lonely sands, and felt the natural disappointment of the
circumstances. Then the moon began to rise, and when she noticed this,
she remembered how late her mother was away from home, and a slight
uneasiness crept into her heart. She threw a plaid around her head, and
was going to the neighbour's where she expected to find her, when Janet
appeared.

She came up to the cliff slowly, and her face was far graver than
ordinary when she entered the cottage, and with a pious ejaculation
threw off her shawl.

"What kept you at all, Mother? I was just going to seek you."

"Watty Robertson has won away at last."

"When did he die?"

"He went away with the tide. He was called just at the turn. Ah,
Christina, it is loving and dying all the time! Life is love and death;
for what is our life? It is even a vapour that appeareth for a little
time, and then vanisheth away."

"But Watty was well ready for the change, Mother?"

"He went away with a smile. And I staid by poor Lizzie, for I have
drank of the same cup, and I know how bitter was the taste of it. Old
Elspeth McDonald stretched the corpse, and her and I had a change of
words; but Lizzie was with me."

"What for did you clash at such a like time?"

"She covered up his face, and I said: 'Stop your hand, Elspeth. Don't
you go to cover Watty's face now. He never did ill to any one while he
lived, and there's no need to hide his face when he is dead.' And we
had a bit stramash about it, for I can't abide to hide up the face that
is honest and well loved, and Lizzie said I was right, and so Elspeth
went off in a tiff."

"I think there must be 'tiffs' floating about in the air to-night.
Jamie and Andrew have had a falling out, and Jamie went away far less
than pleased with me."

"What's to do between them?"

"Jamie met with an old friend who was hungry and thirsty, and he went
with him to the 'public' instead of going to the boat for Andrew, as he
promised to do. You know how Andrew feels about a word broken."

"_Toots_! Andrew Binnie has a deal to learn yet. You should have told
him it was better to show mercy, than to stick at a mouthful of words.
Had you never a soft answer to throw at the two fractious fools?"

"How could I interfere?"

"Finely! If you don't know the right way to throw with a thrawn man,
like Andrew, and to come round a soft man, like Jamie, I'm sorry for
you! A woman with a thimble-full of woman-wit could ravel them both
up--ravel them up like a cut of worsteds."

"Well, the day is near over. The clock will chap twelve in ten minutes,
and I'm going to my bed. I'm feared you won't sleep much, Mother. You
look awake to your instep."

"Never mind. I have some good thoughts for the sleepless. Folks don't
sleep well after seeing a man with wife and bairns round him look death
and judgment in the face."

"But Watty looked at them smiling, you said?"

"He did. Watty's religion went to the bottom and extremity of things.
I'll be asking this night for grace to live with, and then I'll get
grace to die with when my hour comes. You needn't fash your heart about
me. Sleeping or waking, I am in His charge. Nor about Jamie; he'll be
all right the morn. Nor about Andrew, for I'll tell him not to make a
Pharisee of himself--he has his own failing, and it isn't far to seek."

And it is likely Janet had her intended talk with her son, for nothing
more was said to Jamie about his neglect of duty; and the little cloud
was but a passing one, and soon blew over. Circumstances favoured
oblivion. Christina's love encompassed both her brother and her lover,
and Janet's womanly tact turned every shadow into sunshine, and
disarmed all suspicious or doubtful words. Also, the fishing season was
an unusually good one; every man was of price, and few men were better
worth their price than Jamie Logan. So an air of prosperity and
happiness filled each little cottage, and Andrew Binnie was certainly
saving money--a condition of affairs that always made him easy to live
with.

As for the women of the village, they were in the early day up to their
shoulders in work, and in the more leisurely evenings, they had
Christina's marriage and marriage presents to talk about. The girl had
many friends and relatives far and near, and every one remembered her.
It was a set of china from an aunt in Crail, or napery from some
cousins in Kirkcaldy, or quilts from her father's folk in Largo, and so
on, in a very charming monotony. Now and then a bit of silver came, and
once a very pretty American clock. And there was not a quilt or a
tablecloth, a bit of china or silver, a petticoat or a ribbon, that the
whole village did not examine, and discuss, and offer their
congratulations over.

Christina and her mother quite enjoyed this popular manifestation of
interest, and Jamie was not at all averse to the good-natured
familiarity. And though Andrew withdrew from such occasions, and
appeared to be rather annoyed than pleased by the frequent intrusion of
strange women, neither Janet nor Christina heeded his attitude very
much.

"What for would we be caring?" queried the mother. "There is just one
woman in the world to Andrew. If it was Sophy's wedding-presents now,
he would be in a wonder over them! But he is not wanting you to marry
at all, Christina. Men are a selfish lot. Somehow, I think he has taken
a doubt or a dislike to Jamie. He thinks he isn't good enough for you."

"He is as good as I want him. I'm feared for men as particular as
Andrew. They are whiles gey ill to live with. Andrew has not had a
smile for a body for a long time, and he has been making money. I
wonder if there is aught wrong between Sophy and himself."

"You might away to Largo and ask after the girl. She hasn't been here
in a good while. And I'm thinking yonder talk she had with you anent
Archie Braelands wasn't all out of her own head."

So that afternoon Christina put on her kirk dress, and went to Largo to
see Sophy. Her walk took her over a lonely stretch of country, though,
as she left the coast, she came to a lovely land of meadows, with here
and there waving plantations of young spruce or fir trees. Passing the
entrance to one of these sheltered spots, she saw a servant driving
leisurely back and forward a stylish dog-cart; and she had a sudden
intuition that it belonged to Braelands. She looked keenly into the
green shadows, but saw no trace of any human being; yet she had not
gone far, ere she was aware of light footsteps hurrying behind her, and
before she could realise the fact, Sophy called her in a breathless,
fretful way "to wait a minute for her." The girl came up flushed and
angry-looking, and asked Christina, "whatever brought her that far?"

"I was going to Largo to see you. Mother was getting worried about you.
It's long since you were near us."  "I am glad I met you. For I was
wearied with the sewing to-day, and I asked Aunt to let me have a
holiday to go and see you; and now we can go home together, and she
will never know the differ. You must not tell her but what I have been
to Pittendurie. My goodness! It is lucky I met you."

"But where have you been, Sophy?"

"I have been with a friend, who gave me a long drive."

"Who would that be?"

"Never you mind. There is nothing wrong to it. You may trust me for
that, Christina. I was fairly worn out, and Aunt hasn't a morsel of
pity. She thinks I ought to be glad to sew from Monday morning to
Saturday night, and I tell you it hurts me, and gives me a cough, and I
had to get a breath of sea-air or die for it. So a friend gave me what
I wanted."

"But if you had come to our house, you could have got the sea-air
finely. Sophy! Sophy! I am misdoubting what you tell me. How came you
in the wood?"

"We were taking a bit walk by ourselves there. I love the smell of the
pines, and the peace, and the silence. It rests me; and I didn't want
folks spying, and talking, and going with tales to Aunt. She ties me up
shorter than needs be now."

"He was a mean fellow to leave you here all by yourself."

"I made him do it. Goodness knows, he is fain enough to be seen by high
and low with me. But Andrew would not like it; he is that
jealous-natured--and I just _be_ to have some rest and fresh air."

"Andrew would gladly give you both."

"Not he! He is away to the fishing, or about his business, one way or
another, all the time. And I am that weary of stitch, stitch,
stitching, I could cry at the thought of it."

"Was it Archie Braelands that gave you the drive?"

"Ay, it was. Archie is just my friend, nothing more. I have told him,
and better told him, that I am to marry Andrew."

"He is a scoundrel then to take you out."

"He is nothing of the kind. He is just a friend. I am doing Andrew no
wrong, and myself a deal of good."

"Then why are you feared for people seeing you?"

"I am not feared. But I don't want to be the wonder and the talk of
every idle body. And I am not able to bear my aunt's nag, nag, nag at
me. I wish I was married. It isn't right of Andrew to leave me so much
to myself. It will be his own fault if he loses me altogether. I am
worn out with Aunt Kilgour, and my life is a fair weariness to me."

"Andrew is getting everything brawly ready for you. I wish I could tell
you what grand plans he has for your happiness. Be true to Andrew,
Sophy, and you will be the happiest bride, and the best loved wife in
all Scotland."

"Plans! What plans? What has he told you?"

"I am not free to speak, Sophy. I should not have said a word at all. I
hope you will just forget I have."

"Indeed I will not! I will make Andrew tell me his plans. Why should he
tell you, and not me? It is a shame to treat me that way, and he shall
hear tell of it."

"Sophy! Sophy! I would as lief you killed me as told Andrew I had given
you a hint of his doings. He would never forgive me. I can no forgive
myself. Oh what a foolish, wicked woman I have been to say a word to
you!" and Christina burst into passionate weeping.

"_Whist_! Christina; I'll never tell him, not I! I know well you
slipped the words to pleasure me. But giff-gaff makes us good friends,
and so you must just walk to the door with me and pass a word with my
aunt, and say neither this nor that about me, and I will forget you
ever said Andrew had such a thing as a 'plan' about me."

The proposal was not to Christina's mind, but she was ready to face any
contingency rather than let Andrew know she had given the slightest
hint of his intentions. She understood what joy he had in the thought
of telling his great news to Sophy at its full time, and how angry he
would naturally feel at any one who interfered with his designs. In a
moment, without intention, with the very kindest of motives, she had
broken her word to her brother, and she was as miserable as a woman
could be over the unhappy slip. And Sophy's proposal added to her
remorse. It made her virtually connive at Sophy's intercourse with
Archie Braelands, and she felt herself to be in a great strait. In
order to favour her brother she had spoken hastily, and the swift
punishment of her folly was that she must now either confess her fault
or tacitly sanction a wrong against him.

For the present, she could see no way out of the difficulty. To tell
Andrew would be to make him suspicious on every point. He would then
doubtless find some other hiding place for his money, and if any
accident did happen, her mother, and Sophy, and all Andrew loved, would
suffer for her indiscretion. She took Sophy's reiterated promise, and
then walked with the girl to her aunt's house. It was a neat stone
dwelling, with some bonnets and caps in the front window, and when the
door was opened, a bell rang, and Mistress Kilgour came hastily from an
inner room. She looked pleased when she saw Sophy and Christina, and
said:--

"Come in, Christina. I am glad you brought Sophy home in such good
time. For I'm in a state of perfect frustration this afternoon. Here's
a bride gown and bonnet to make, and a sound of more work coming."

"Who is to be married, Miss Kilgour?"

"Madame Kilrin of Silverhawes--a second affair, Christina, and she more
than middle-aged."

"She is rich, though?"

"That's it! rich, but made up of odds and ends, and but one eye to see
with: a prelatic woman, too, seeking all things her own way."

"And the man? Who is he?"

"He is a lawyer. Them gentry have their fingers in every pie, hot or
cold. However, I'm wishing them nothing but good. Madame is a constant
customer. Come, come, Christina, you are not going already?"

"I am hurried to-night. Mistress Kilgour. Mother is alone. Andrew is
away to Greenock on business."

"So you came back with Sophy. I am glad you did. There are some folks
that are o'er ready to take charge of the girl, and some that seem to
think she can take charge of herself. Oh, she knows fine what I mean!"
And Miss Kilgour pointed her fore-finger at Sophy and shook her head
until all the flowers in her cap and all the ringlets on her front hair
dangled in unison.

Sophy had turned suddenly sulky and made no reply, and Miss Kilgour
continued: "It is her way always, when she has been to your house,
Christina. Whatever do you say to her? Is there anything agec between
Andrew and herself? Last week and the week before, she came back from
Pittendurie in a temper no saint could live with."

"I'm so miserable. Aunt. I am miserable every hour of my life."

"And you wouldn't be happy unless you were miserable, Sophy. Don't mind
her talk, Christina. Young things in love don't know what they want."

"I am sick, Aunt."

"You are in love, Sophy, and that is all there is to it. Don't go,
Christina. Have a cup of tea first?"

"I cannot stop any longer. Good-bye, Sophy. I'll tell Andrew to come
and give you a walk to-morrow. Shall I?"

"If you like to. He will not come until Sunday, though; and then he
will be troubled about walking on the Sabbath day. I'm not caring to go
out."

"That is a lie, Sophy Traill!" cried her aunt. "It is the only thing
you do care about."

"You had better go home, Christina," said Sophy, with a sarcastic
smile, "or you will be getting a share of temper that does not belong
to you. I am well used to it."

Christina made an effort to consider this remark as a joke, and under
this cover took her leave. She was thankful to be alone with herself.
Her thoughts and feelings were in a tumult; she could not bring any
kind of reason out of their chaos. Her chagrin at her own folly was
sharp and bitter. It made her cry out against herself as she trod
rapidly her homeward road. Almost inadvertently, because it was the
shortest and most usual way, she took the route that led her past
Braelands. The great house was thrown open, and on the lawns was a
crowd of handsomely dressed men and women, drinking tea at little
tables set under the trees and among the shrubbery. Christina merely
glanced at the brave show of shifting colour, and passed more quickly
onward, the murmur of conversation and the ripple of laughter pursuing
her a little way, for the evening was warm and quiet.

She thought of Sophy among this gay crowd, and felt the incongruity of
the situation, and a sense of anger sprung up in her breast at the
girl's wicked impatience and unfaithfulness. It had caused her also to
err, for she had been tempted by it to speak words which had been a
violation of her own promise, and yet which had really done no good.

"She was always one of those girls that led others into trouble," she
reflected. "Many a scolding she has got me when I was a wee thing, and
to think that now! with the promise to Andrew warm on my lips, I have
put myself in her power! It is too bad! It is not believable!"

She was glad when she came within sight of the sea; it was like a
glimpse of home. The damp, fresh wind with its strong flavour of brine
put heart into her, and the few sailors and fishers she met, with their
sweethearts on their arms and their blue shirts open at their throats,
had all a merry word or two to say to her. When she reached her home,
she found Andrew sitting at a little table looking over some papers
full of strange marks and columns of figures. His quick glance, and the
quiet assurance of his love contained in it, went sorely to her heart.
She would have fallen at his feet and confessed her unadvised admission
to Sophy gladly, but she doubted, whether it would be the kindest and
wisest thing to do.

And then Janet joined them, and she had any number of questions to ask
about Sophy, and Christina, to escape being pressed on this subject,
began to talk with forced interest of Madame Kilrin's marriage. So,
between this and that, the evening got over without suspicion, and
Christina carried her miserable sense of disloyalty to bed and to sleep
with her--literally to sleep, for she dreamed all night of the
circumstance, and awakened in the morning with a heart as heavy as
lead.

"But it is just what I deserve!" she said crossly to herself, as she
laced her shoes, "what need had I to be caring about Sophy Traill and
her whims? She is a dissatisfied lass at the best, and her love affairs
are beyond my sorting. Serves you right, Christina Binnie! You might
know, if anybody might, that they who put their oar into another's boat
are sure to get their fingers rapped. They deserve it too."

However, Christina could not willingly dwell long on sorrowful
subjects. She was always inclined to subdue trouble swiftly, or else to
shake it away from her. For she lived by intuition, rather than by
reason; and intuition is born of, and fed by, home affection and devout
religion. Something too of that insight which changes faith into
knowledge, and which is the birthright of primitive natures, was hers,
and she divined, she knew not how, that Sophy would be true to her
promise, and not say a word which would lead Andrew to doubt her. And
so far she was right. Sophy had many faults, but the idea of breaking
her contract with Christina did not even occur to her.

She wondered what plans Andrew had, and what good surprise he was
preparing for her, but she was in no special hurry to find it out. The
knowledge might bring affairs to a permanent crisis between her and
Andrew,--might mean marriage--and Sophy dreaded to face this question,
with all its isolating demands. Her "friendship" with Archie Braelands
was very sweet to her; she could not endure to think of any event which
must put a stop to it. She enjoyed Archie's regrets and pleadings. She
liked to sigh a little and cry a little over her hard fate; to be
sympathised with for it; to treat it as if she could not escape from
it; and yet to be nursing in her heart a passionate hope to do so.

And after all, the process of reflection is unnatural and uncommon to
nine tenths of humanity; and so Christina lifted her daily work and
interests, and tried to forget her fault. And indeed, as the weeks went
on, she tried to believe it had been no fault, for Sophy was much
kinder to Andrew for some time; this fact being readily discernible in
Andrew's cheerful moods, and in the more kindly interest which he then
took in his home matters.

"For it is well with us, when it is well with Sophy Traill, and we have
the home weather she lets us have," Janet often remarked. The assertion
had a great deal of truth in it. Sophy, from her chair in Mistress
Kilgour's workroom, greatly influenced the domestic happiness of the
Binnie cottage, even though they neither saw her, nor spoke her name.
But her moods made Andrew happy or miserable, and Andrew's moods made
Janet and Christina happy or miserable; so sure and so wonderful a
thing is human solidarity. Yes indeed! For what one of us has not known
some man or woman, never seen, who holds the thread of a destiny and
yet has no knowledge concerning it. This thought would make life a
desperate tangle if we did not also know that One, infinite in power
and mercy, guides every event to its predestined and its wisest end.

For a little while after Christina's visit, Sophy was particularly kind
to Andrew; then there came a sudden change, and Christina noticed that
her brother returned from Largo constantly with a heavy step and a
gloomy face. Occasionally he admitted to her that he had been "sorely
disappointed," but as a general thing he shut himself in his room and
sulked as only men know how to sulk, till the atmosphere of the house
was tingling with suppressed temper, and every one was on the edge of
words that the tongue meant to be sharp as a sword.

One morning in October, Christina met her brother on the sands, and he
said, "I will take the boat and give you a sail, if you like,
Christina. There is only a pleasant breeze."

"I wish you would, Andrew," she answered. "This little northwester will
blow every weariful thought away."

"I'm feared I have been somewhat cross and ill to do for, lately.
Mother says so."

"Mother does not say far wrong. You have lost your temper often,
Andrew, and consequent your common sense. And it is not like you to be
unfair, not to say unkind; you have been that more than once, and to
two who love you dearly."

Andrew said no more until they were on the bay, then he let the oars
drift, and asked:--

"What did you think of Sophy the last time you saw her? Tell me truly,
Christina."

"Who knows aught about Sophy? She hardly knows her own mind. You cannot
tell what she is thinking about by her face, any more than you can tell
what she is going to do by her words. She is as uncertain as the wind,
and it has changed since you lifted the oars. Is there anything new to
fret yourself over?"

"Ay, there is. I cannot get sight of her."

"Are you twenty-seven years old, and of such a beggary of capacity as
not to be able to concert time and place to see her?"

"But if she herself is against seeing me, then how am I going to
manage?"

"What way did you find out that she was against seeing you?"

"Whatever else could I think, when I get no other thing but excuses?
First, she was gone away for a week's rest, and Mistress Kilgour said I
had better not trouble her--she was that nervous."

"Where did she go to?"

"I don't believe she was out of her aunt's house. I am sure the postman
was astonished when I told him she was away, and her aunt's face was
very confused-like. Then when I went again she had a headache, and
could hardly speak a word to me; and she never named about the week's
holiday. And the next time there was a ball dress making; and the next
she had gone to the minister's for her 'token,' and when I said I would
go there and meet her, I was told not to think of such a thing; and so
on, and so on, Christina. There is nothing but put-offs and put-bys,
and my heart is full of sadness and fearful wonder."

"And if you do see her, what then, Andrew?"

"She is that low-spirited I do not know how to talk to her. She has
little to say, and sits with her seam, and her eyes cast down, and all
her pretty, merry ways are gone far away. I wonder where! Do you think
she is ill, Christina?" he asked drearily.

"No, I do not, Andrew."

"Her mother died of a consumption, when she was only a young thing, you
know."

"That is no reason why Sophy should die of a consumption. Andrew, have
you ever told her what your plans are? Have you told her she may be a
lady and live in London if it pleases her? Have you told her that you
will soon be _Captain Binnie_ of the North Sea fleet?"

"No, no! What for would I bribe the girl? I want her free given love. I
want her to marry plain Andrew Binnie. I will tell her everything the
very hour she is my wife. That is the joy I look forward to. And it is
right, is it not?"

"No. It is all wrong. It is all wrong. Girls like men that have the
spirit to win siller and push their way in the world."

"I cannot thole the thought of Sophy marrying me for my money."

"You think o'er much of your money. Ask yourself whether in getting
money you have got good, or only gold. And about marrying Sophy, it is
not in your hand. Marriages are made in heaven, and unless there has
been a booking of your two names above, I am feared all your courting
below will come to little. Yet it is your duty to do all you can to win
the girl you want; and I can tell you what will win Sophy Traill, if
anything on earth will win her."  Then she pointed out to him how fond
Sophy was of fine dress and delicate living; how she loved roses, and
violets, and the flowers of the garden, so much better than the pale,
salt blossoms of the sea rack, however brilliant their colours; how she
admired such a house as Braelands, and praised the glory of the
peacock's trailing feathers. "The girl is not born for a poor man's
wife," she continued, "her heart cries out for gold, and all that gold
can buy; and if you are set on Sophy, and none but Sophy, you will have
to win her with what she likes best, or else see some other man do so."

"Then I will be buying her, and not winning her."

"Oh you unspeakable man! Your conceit is just extraordinary! If you
wanted any other good thing in life, from a big ship to a gold ring,
would you not expect to buy it? Would your loving it, and wanting it,
be sufficient? Jamie Logan knew well what he was about, when he brought
us the letter from the Hendersons' firm. I love Jamie very dearly; but
I'm free to confess the letter came into my consideration."

Talking thus, with the good wind blowing the words into his heart,
Christina soon inspired Andrew with her own ideas and confidence His
face cleared; he began to row with his natural energy; and as they
stepped on the wet sands together, he said almost joyfully:--

"I will take your advice, Christina. I will go and tell Sophy
everything."

"Then she will smile in your face, she will put her hand in your hand;
maybe, she will give you a kiss, for she will be thinking in her heart,
'how brave and how clever my Andrew is.' And he will be taking me to
London and making me a lady!' and such thoughts breed love, Andrew. You
are well enough, and few men handsomer or better--unless it be Jamie
Logan--but it isn't altogether the man; it is what the man _can do_."

"I'll go and see Sophy to-morrow."

"Why not to-day?"

"She is going to Mariton House to fit a dress and do some sewing. Her
aunt told me so."

"If I was you, I would not let her sew for strangers any longer. Go and
ask her to marry you at once, and do not take 'no' from her."

"Your words stir my heart to the bottom of it, and I will do as you
say, Christina; for Sophy has grown into my life, like my own folk, and
the sea, and the stars, and my boat, and my home. And if she will love
me the better for the news I have to tell her, I am that far gone in
love with her I must even put wedding on that ground. Win her I must;
or else die for her."

"Win her, surely; die for her, nonsense! No man worth the name of man
would die because a woman wouldn't marry him. God has made more than
one good woman, more than one fair woman."

"Only one woman for Andrew Binnie."

"To be sure, if you choose to limit yourself in that way. I think
better of you. And as for dying for a woman, I don't believe in it."

"Poor Matt Ballantyne broke his heart about Jessie Graham."

"It was a very poor heart then. Nothing mends so soon as a good heart.
It trusts in the Omnipotent, and gets strength for its need, and then
begins to look around for good it can do, or make for others, or take
to itself. If Matt broke his heart for Jessie, Jessie would have been
poorly cared for by such a weak kind of a heart. She is better off with
Neil McAllister, no doubt."

"You have done me good, Christina. I have not heard so many sound
observes in a long time."

And with that Janet came to the cliff-top and called to them to hurry.
"Step out!" she cried, "here is Jamie Logan with a pocket full of great
news; and the fish is frying itself black, while you two are
daundering, as if it was your very business and duty to keep hungry
folk waiting their dinner for you."




CHAPTER IV

THE LAST OF THE WHIP


With a joyful haste Christina went forward, leaving her brother to
follow in more sober fashion. Jamie came to the cliff-top to meet her,
and Janet from the cottage door beamed congratulations and radiant
sympathy.

"I have got my berth on the Line, Christina! I am to sail next Friday
from Greenock, so I'll start at once, my dearie! And I am the happiest
lad in Fife to-day!"

He had his arms around her as he spoke, and he kissed her smiles and
glad exclamations off her lips before she could put them into words.
Then Andrew joined them, and after clasping hands with Jamie and
Christina, he went slowly into the cottage, leaving the lovers alone
outside. Janet was all excitement.

"I'm like to greet with the good news, Andrew," she said, "it came so
unexpected Jamie was just daundering over the sands, kind of
down-hearted, he said, and wondering if he would stay through the
winter and fish with Peddle or not, when little Maggie Johnston cried
out, 'there is a big letter for you, Jamie Logan,' and he went and got
it, and, lo and behold! it was from the Hendersons themselves! And they
are needing Jamie now, and he'll just go at once, he says. There's luck
for you! I am both laughing and crying with the pride and the pleasure
of it!"

"I wouldn't make such a fuss, anyway, Mother. It is what Jamie has been
looking for and expecting, and I am glad he has won to it at last."

"Fuss indeed! Plenty of 'fuss' made over sorrow; why not over joy? And
if you think me a fool for it, I'm not sure but I might call you my
neighbour, if it was only Sophy Traill or her affairs to be 'fussed'
over."

"Never mind Sophy, Mother. It is Jamie and Christina now, and Christina
knows her happiness is dear to me as my own."

"Well then, show it, Andrew. Show it, my lad! We must do what we can to
put heart into poor Jamie; for when all is said and done, he is going
to foreign parts and leaving love and home behind." And she walked to
the door and looked at Jamie and Christina, who were standing on the
cliff-edge together, deeply engaged in a conversation that was of the
highest interest to themselves. "I have fancied you have been a bit shy
with Jamie since yon time he set an old friend before his promise to
you, Andrew; but what then?"

"I wish Christina had married among our own folk. I have no wrong to
say in particular of Jamie Logan, but I think my sister might have made
her life with some good man a bit closer to her."

"I thought, Andrew, that you were able to look sensibly at what comes
and goes. If it was a matter of business, you would be the first to see
the advantage of building your dyke with the stones you could get at.
And you may believe me or not, but there's a deal of the successful
work of this life carried through on that principle. Well, in marrying
it is just as wise. The lad you _can get_, is happen better than the
lad you _want_. Anyhow Christina is going to marry Jamie; and I'm sure
he is that loving and pleasant, and that fond of her, that I have no
doubt she will be happy as the day is long."

"I hope it is the truth, Mother, that you are saying."

"It is; but some folks won't see the truth, though they are dashing
their noses against it. None so blind as they who won't see."

"Well, it isn't within my right to speak to-day."

"Yes, it is. It is your right and place to speak all the good and
hopeful words you can think of. Don't be dour, Andrew. Man! man! how
hard it is to rejoice with them that do rejoice! It takes more
Christianity to do that than most folks carry around with them."

"Mother, you are a perfectly unreasonable woman. You flyte at me, as if
I was a laddie of ten years old--but I'll not dare to say but what you
do me a deal of good;" and Andrew's face brightened as he looked at
her.

"You would hardly do the right thing, if I didn't flyte at you, Andrew.
And maybe I wouldn't do it myself, if I was not watching you; having
nobody to scold and advise is very like trying to fly a kite without
wind. Go to the door and call in Jamie and Christina. We ought to take
an interest in their bit plans and schemes; and if we take it, we ought
to show we take it."

Then Andrew rose and went to the open door, and as he went he laid his
big hand on his mother's shoulder, and a smile flew from face to face,
and in its light every little shadow vanished. And Jamie was glad to
bring in his promised bride, and among her own people as they eat
together, talk over the good that had come to them, and the changes
that were incident to it. And thus an hour passed swiftly away, and
then "farewells" full of love and hope, and laughter and tears, and
hand-clasping, and good words, were said; and Jamie went off to his new
life, leaving a thousand pleasant hopes and expectations behind him.

After he was fairly out of sight, and Christina stood looking tearfully
into the vacancy where his image still lingered, Andrew led her to the
top of the cliff, and they sat down together. It was an exquisite
afternoon, full of the salt and sparkle of the sea; and for awhile both
remained silent, looking down on the cottages, and the creels, and the
drying nets. The whole village seemed to be out, and the sands were
covered with picturesque figures in sea-boots and striped hanging caps,
and with the no less picturesque companion figures in striped
petticoats. Some of the latter were old women, and these wore
high-crowned, unbordered caps of white linen; others were young women,
and these had no covering at all on their exuberant hair; but most of
them displayed long gold rings in their ears, and bright scarlet or
blue kerchiefs round their necks. Andrew glanced from these figures to
his sister; and touching her striped petticoat, he said:--

"You'll be changing this for what they call a gown, when you go to
Glasgow! How soon is that to be, Christina?"

"When Jamie has got well settled in his place. It wouldn't be prudent
before."

"About the New Year, say?"

"Ay; about the New Year."

"I am thinking of giving you a silk gown for your wedding."

"O Andrew! if you would! A silk gown would set me up above every thing!
I'll never forget such a favour as that."

"I'll do it."

"And Sophy will see to the making of it. Sophy has a wonderful taste
about trimming, and the like of that. Sophy will stand up with me, and
you will be Jamie's best man; won't you, Andrew?"

"Ay, Sophy will see to the making of it. Few can make a gown look as
she can. She is a clever bit thing"--then after a pause he added sadly,
"there was one thing I did not tell you this morning; but it is a
circumstance I feel very badly about."

"What is it? You know well that I shall feel with you."

"It is the way folks keep hinting this and that to me; but more, that I
am mistrusting Mistress Kilgour. I saw a young fellow standing at the
shop door talking to her the other morning very confidential-like--a
young fellow that could not have any lawful business with her."

"What kind of a person was he?"

"A large, dark man, dressed like a picture in a tailor's window. His
servant-man, in a livery of brown and yellow, was holding the horses in
a fine dog-cart. I asked Jimmy Faulds what his name was and he laughed
and said it was Braelands of Braelands, and he should think I knew it
and then he looked at me that queer, that I felt as if his eyes had
told me of some calamity. 'What is he doing at Mistress Kilgour's?' I
asked as soon as I could get myself together, and Jimmy answered, 'I
suppose he is ordering Madame Braelands' millinery,' and then he
snickered and laughed again, and I had hard lines to keep my hands from
striking him.'

"What for at all?"

"I don't know. I wish I did."

"If I give you my advice, will you take it?"

"I will."

"Then for once--if you don't want Braelands to win Sophy from you--put
your lover's fears and shamefacedness behind your back. Just remember
who and what you are, and what you are like to be, and go and tell
Sophy everything, and ask her to marry you next Monday morning. Take
gold in your pocket, and buy her a wedding gift--a ring, or a brooch,
or some bonnie thing or other; and promise her a trip to Edinburgh or
London, or any other thing she fancies."

"We have not been 'cried' yet. And the names must be read in the kirk
for three Sundays."

"Oh man! Cannot you get a licence? It will cost you a few shillings,
but what of that? You are too slow, Andrew. If you don't take care, and
make haste, Braelands will run away with your wife before your very
eyes."

"I'll not believe it. It could not be. The thing is unspeakable, and
unbearable. I'll face my fate the morn, and I'll know the best--or the
worst of what is coming to me."

"Look for good, and have good, that is, if you don't let the good hour
go by. You, Andrew Binnie! that can manage a boat when the north wind
is doing its mightiest, are you going to be one of the cony kind, when
it comes to a slip of a girl like Sophy? I can not think it, for you
know what Solomon said of such--'Oh Son, it is a feeble folk.'"

"I don't come of feeble folk, body nor soul; and as I have said, I will
have the whole matter out with Sophy to-morrow."

"Good--but better _do_ than say."

The next morning a swift look of intelligence passed between Andrew and
Christina at breakfast, and about eleven o'clock Andrew said, "I'll
away now to Largo, and settle the business we were speaking of,
Christina." She looked up at him critically, and thought she had never
seen a handsomer man. Though only a fisherman, he was too much a force
of nature to be vulgar. He was the incarnation of the grey, old
village, and of the North Sea, and of its stormy winds and waters.
Standing in his boots he was over six feet, full of pluck and fibre, a
man not made for the town and its narrow doorways, but for the great
spaces of the tossing ocean. His face was strong and finely formed; his
eyes grey and open--as eyes might be that had so often searched the
thickest of the storm with unquailing glance. A sensitive flush
overspread his brow and cheeks as Christina gazed at him, and he said
nervously:--

"I will require to put on my best clothes; won't I, Christina?"

She laid her hand on his arm, and shook her head with a pleasant smile.
She was regarding with pride and satisfaction her brother's fine
figure, admirably shown in the elastic grace of his blue Guernsey. She
turned the collar low enough to leave his round throat a little bare,
and put his blue flannel _Tam o' Shanter_ over his close, clustering
curls. "Go as you are," she said. "In that dress you feel at home, and
at ease, and you look ten times the man you do in your broadcloth. And
if Sophy cannot like her fisher-lad in his fisher-dress, she isn't
worthy of him."

He was much pleased with this advice, for it precisely sorted with his
own feelings; and he stooped and kissed Christina, and she sent him
away with a smile and a good wish. Then she went to her mother, who was
in a little shed salting some fish. "Mother," she cried, "Andrew has
gone to Largo."

"Like enough. It would be stranger, if he had stopped at home."

"He has gone to ask Sophy to marry him next week--next Monday."

"Perfect nonsense! We'll have no such marrying in a hurry, and a
corner. It will take a full month to marry Andrew Binnie. What would
all our folks say, far and near, if they were not bid to the wedding?
Set to that, you have to be married first. Marrying isn't like
Christmas, coming every year of our Lord; and we _be_ to make the most
of it. I'll not give my consent to any such like hasty work. Why, they
are not even 'called' in the kirk yet."

"Andrew can get a licence."

"Andrew can get a fiddle-stick! None of the Binnies were ever married,
but by word of the kirk, and none of them shall be, if I can help it.
Licence indeed! Buying the right to marry for a few shillings, and the
next thing will be a few more shillings for the right to un-marry. I'll
not hear tell of such a way."

"But, Mother, if Andrew does not get Sophy at once, he may lose her
altogether."

"_Humph_! No great loss."

"The biggest loss in the world that Andrew can have. Things are come to
a pass. If Andrew does not marry her at once, I am feared Braelands
will carry her off."

"He is welcome to her."

"No, no, Mother! Do you want Braelands to get the best of Andrew?"

"The like of him get the best of Andrew! I'll not believe it. Sophy
isn't beyond all sense of right and feeling. If, after all these years,
she left Andrew for that fine gentleman, she would be a very Jael of
deceit and treachery. I wish I had told her about her mother's second
cousin, bonnie Lizzie Lauder."

"What of her? I never heard tell, did I, Mother?"

"No. We don't speak of Lizzie now."

"Why then?"

"She was very bonnie, and she was very like Sophy about hating to work;
and she was never done crying to all the gates of pleasure to open wide
and let her enter. And she went in."

"Well, Mother? Is that all?"

"No. I wish in God's mercy it was! The avenging gates closed on her.
She is shut up in hell. There, I'll say no more."

"Yes, Mother. You will ask God's mercy for her. It never faileth."

Janet turned away, and lifted her apron to her eyes, and stood so
silent for a few minutes. And Christina left her alone, and went back
into the house place, and began to wash up the breakfast-cups and cut
up some vegetables for their early dinner. And by-and-by her mother
joined her, and Christina began to tell how Andrew had promised her a
silk gown for her wedding. This bit of news was so wonderful and
delightful to Janet, that it drove all other thoughts far from her. She
sat down to discuss it with all the care and importance the subject
demanded. Every colour was considered; and when the colour had been
decided, there was then the number of yards and the kind of trimming to
be discussed, and the manner of its making, and the person most
suitable to undertake the momentous task. For Janet was at that hour
angry with Mistress Kilgour, and not inclined to "put a bawbee her
way," seeing that it was most likely she had been favouring Braeland's
suit, and therefore a bitter enemy to Andrew.

After the noon meal, Janet took her knitting, and went to tell as many
of her neighbours as it was possible to see during the short afternoon,
about the silk gown her Christina was to be married in; and Christina
spread her ironing table, and began to damp, and fold, and smooth the
clean linen. And as she did so, she sang a verse or two of 'Hunting
Tower,' and then she thought awhile, and then she sang again. And she
was so happy, that her form swayed to her movements; it seemed to smile
as she walked backwards and forwards with the finished garments or the
hot iron in her hands. She was thinking of the happy home she would
make for Jamie, and of all the bliss that was coming to her. For before
a bird flies you may see its wings, and Christina was already pluming
hers for a flight into that world which in her very ignorance she
invested with a thousand unreal charms.

She did not expect Andrew back until the evening. He would most likely
have a long talk with Sophy; there was so much to tell her, and when it
was over, it would be in a large measure to tell again to Mistress
Kilgour. Then it was likely Andrew would take tea with his promised
wife, and perhaps they might have a walk afterwards; so, calculating
all these things. Christina came to the conclusion that it would be
well on to bed time, before she knew what arrangements Andrew had made
for his marriage and his life after it.

Not a single unpleasant doubt troubled her mind, she thought she knew
Sophy's nature so well; and she could hardly conceive it possible, that
the girl should have any reluctances about a lad so well known, so
good, and so handsome, and with such a fine future before him, as
Andrew Binnie. All Sophy's flights and fancies, all her favours to
young Braelands, Christina put down to the dissatisfaction Sophy so
often expressed with her position, and the vanity which arose naturally
from her recognised beauty and youthful grace. But to be "a settled
woman," with a loving husband and "a house of her own," seemed to
Christina an irresistible offer; and she smiled to herself when she
thought of Sophy's surprise, and of the many pretty little airs and
conceits the state of bridehood would be sure to bring forth in her
self-indulgent nature.

"She will be provoking enough, no doubt," she whispered as she set the
iron sharply down; "but I'll never notice it. She is very little more
than a bairn, and but a canary-headed creature added to that. In a year
or two, Andrew, and marriage, and maybe motherhood, will sober and
settle her. And Andrew loves her so. Most as well as Jamie loves me.
For Andrew's sake, then, I'll bear with all her provoking ways and
words. She'll be _our own_, anyway, and we be to have patience with
they of our own household. Bonnie wee Sophy."

It was about mid-afternoon when she came to this train of forbearing
and conciliating reflections. She was quite happy in it; for Christina
was one of those wise women, who do not look into their ideals and
hopes too closely. Her face reflecting them was beautiful and benign;
and her shoulders, and hands, her supple waist and limbs, continued the
symphonies of her soft, deep, loving eyes and her smiling mouth. Every
now and then she burst into song; and then her thrilling voice, so
sweet and fresh, had tones in it that only birds and good women full of
love may compass. Mostly the song was a lilt or a verse which spoke for
her own heart and love; but just as the clock struck three, she broke
into a low laugh which ended in a merry, mocking melody, and which was
evidently the conclusion of her argument concerning Sophy's behaviour
as Andrew's wife--

"Toot! toot! quoth the grey-headed father,
  She's less of a bride than a bairn;
She's ta'en like a colt from the heather,
  With sense and discretion to learn.

"Half-husband I trow, and half daddy,
  As humour inconstantly leans;
The man must be patient and steady,
  That weds with a lass in her teens."

She had hardly finished the verse, when she heard a step blending with
its echoes. Her ears rung inward; her eyes dilated with an unhappy
expectancy; she put down her iron with a sudden faint feeling, and
turned her face to the door.

Andrew entered the cottage. He looked at her despairingly, and sinking
into his chair, he covered his wretched face with his hands.

It was not the same man who had left her a few hours before. A change,
like that which a hot iron would make upon a green leaf, had been made
in her handsome, hopeful, happy brother. She could not avoid an
exclamation that was a cry of terror; and she went to him and kissed
him, and murmured, she knew not what words of pity and love. Under
their influence, the flood gates of sorrow were unloosed, he began to
weep, to sob, to shake and tremble, like a reed in a tempest.

Christina saw that his soul was tossed from top to bottom, and in the
madness of the storm, she knew it was folly to ask "why?" But she went
to the door, closed it, slipped forward the bolt, and then came back to
his side, waiting there patiently until the first paroxysm of his grief
was over. Then she said softly:--

"Andrew! My brother Andrew! What sorrow has come to you? Tell
Christina."

"Sophy is dead--dead and gone for me. Oh Sophy, Sophy, Sophy!"

"Andrew, tell me a straight tale. You are not a woman to let any sorrow
get the mastery over you."

"Sophy has gone from me. She has played me false--and after all these
years, deceived and left me."

"Then there is still the Faithful One. His love is from everlasting, to
everlasting. He changeth not."

"Ay; I know," he said drearily. But he straightened himself and
unfastened the button at his throat, and stood up on his feet, planting
them far apart, as if he felt the earth like the reeling deck of a
ship. And Christina opened the little window, and drew his chair near
it, and let the fresh breeze blow upon him; and her heart throbbed
hotly with anger and pity.

"Sit down in the sea wind, Andrew," she said. "There's strength and a
breath of comfort in it; and try and give your trouble words. Did you
see Sophy?"

"Ay; I saw her."

"At her aunt's house?"

"No. I met her on the road. She was in a dog-cart; and the master of
Braelands was driving her. I saw her, ere she saw me; and she was
looking in his face as she never looked in my face. She loves him,
Christina, as she never loved me."

"Did you speak to her?"

"I was that foolish, and left to myself. She was going to pass me,
without a look or a word; but I could not thole the scorn and pain of
it, and I called out to her, '_Sophy_! _Sophy_!'"

"And she did not answer you?"

"She cruddled closer to Braelands. And then he lifted the whip to hurry
the horse; and before I knew what I was doing, I had the beast by the
head--and the lash of the whip--struck me clean across the cheek bone."

"Oh Andrew! Andrew!" And she bent forward and looked at the outraged
cheek, and murmuring, "I see the mark of it! I see the mark of it!" she
kissed the long, white welt, and wetted it with her indignant tears.

Andrew sat passive under her sympathy until she asked, "Did Braelands
say anything when he struck you? Had he no word of excuse?"

"He said: 'It is your own fault, fisherman. The lash was meant for the
horse, and not for you.'"

"Well?"

"And I was in a passion; and I shouted some words I should not have
said--words I never said in my life before. I didn't think the like of
them were in my heart."

"I don't blame you, Andrew."

"I blame myself though. Then I bid Sophy get out of the cart and come
to me;--and--"

"Yes, dear?"

"And she never moved or spoke; she just covered her face with her
hands, and gave a little scream;--for no doubt I had frighted her--and
Braelands, he got into the de'il's own rage then, and dared me to call
the lady 'Sophy' again; 'for,' said he, 'she will be my wife before
many days'; and with that, he struck the horse savagely again and
again, and the poor beast broke from my hand, and bounded for'ard; and
I fell on my back, and the wheels of the cart grazed the soles of my
shoon as they passed me."

"And then?"

"I don't know how long I lay there."

"And they went on and left you lying in the highway?"

"They went on."

"The wicked lass! Oh the wicked, heartless lass!"

"You are not able to judge her, Christina."

"But you can judge Braelands. Get a warrant for the scoundrel the morn.
He is without the law."

"Then I would make Sophy the common talk, far and near. How could I
wrong Sophy to right myself?"

"But the whip lash! the whip lash! Andrew. You cannot thole the like of
that!"

"There was One tholed for me the lash and the buffet, and answer'd
never a word. I can thole the lash for Sophy's sake. A poor love I
would have for Sophy, if I put my own pride before her good name. If I
get help 'from beyond,' I can thole the lash, Christina."

He was white through all the tan of wind, and sea, and sun; and the
sweat of his suffering stood in great beads on his pallid face and
brow. Christina lifted a towel, which she had just ironed, and wiped it
away; and he said feebly;--

"Thank you, dear lass! I will go to my bed a wee."

So Christina opened the door of his room and he tottered in, swaying
like a drunken man, and threw himself upon his bed. Five minutes
afterward she stepped softly to his side. He was sunk in deep sleep,
fathoms below the tide of grief whose waves and billows had gone over
him.

"Thanks be to the Merciful!" she whispered. "When the sorrow is too
great, then He giveth His beloved sleep."




CHAPTER V

THE LOST BRIDE


This unforeseen and unhappy meeting forced a climax in Sophy's love
affairs, which she had hitherto not dared to face. In fact,
circumstances tending that way had arisen about a week previously; and
it was in consequence of them, that she was publicly riding with
Braelands when Andrew met them. For a long time she had insisted on
secrecy in her intercourse with her "friend." She was afraid of Andrew;
she was afraid of her aunt; she was afraid of being made a talk and a
speculation to the gossips of the little town. And though Miss Kilgour
had begun to suspect somewhat, she was not inclined to verify her
suspicions. Madame Braelands was a good customer, therefore she did not
wish to know anything about a matter which she was sure would be a
great annoyance to that lady.

But Madame herself forced the knowledge on her. Some friend had called
at Braelands and thought it right to let her know what a dangerous
affair her son was engaged in. "For the girl is beautiful," she said,
"there is no denying that; and she comes of fisher-folk, who have
simply no idea but that love words and love-kisses must lead to
marrying and housekeeping, and who will bitterly resent and avenge a
wrong done to any woman of their class, as you well know, Madame."

Madame did know this very well; and apart from her terror of a
_mesalliance_ for the heir of Braelands, there was the fact that his
family had always had great political influence, and looked to a public
recognition of it. The fisher vote was an important factor in the
return of any aspirant for Parliamentary honour; and she felt keenly
that Archie was endangering his whole future career by his attentions
to a girl whom it was impossible he should marry, but who would have
the power to arouse against him a bitter antagonism, if he did not
marry her.

She affected to her friend a total indifference to the subject of her
son's amusements, and she said "she was moreover sure that Archibald
Braelands would never do anything to prejudice his own honour, or the
honour of the humblest fisher-girl in Fifeshire." But all the same, her
heart was sick with fear and anxiety; and as soon as her informant had
gone, she ordered her carriage, dressed herself in all her braveries,
and drove hastily to Mistress Kilgour's.

At that very hour, this lady was fussing and fuming angrily at her
niece. Sophy had insisted on going for a walk, and in the altercation
attending this resolve, Mistress Kilgour had unadvisably given speech
to her suspicions about Sophy's companion in these frequent walks, and
threatened her with a revelation of these doubts to Andrew Binnie. But
in spite of all, Sophy had left the house; and her aunt was nursing her
wrath against her when Madame Braeland's carriage clattered up to her
shop door.

Now if Madame had been a prudent woman, and kept the rein on her
prideful temper, she would have found Mistress Kilgour in the very mood
suitable for an ally. But Madame had also been nursing her wrath, and
as soon as Mistress Kilgour had appeared, she asked angrily:--

"Where is that niece of yours, Mistress Kilgour? I should very much
like to know."

The tone of the question irritated the dressmaker, and instantly her
sympathies flew toward her own kith, and kin, and class. Also, her
caution was at once aroused, and she answered the question,
Scotch-wise, by another question:--

"What for are you requiring to see Sophy, Madame?"

"Is she in the house?"

"Shall I go and see?"

"Go and see, indeed! You know well she is not. You know she is away
somewhere, walking or driving with my son--with the heir of Braelands.
Oh, I have heard all about their shameful carryings-on."

"You'll not need to use the word 'shameful' with regard to my niece,
Sophy Traill, Madame Braelands. She has never earned such a like word,
and she never will. You may take my say-so for that."

"It is not anybody's say-so in this case. Seeing is believing, and they
have been seen together, walking in Fernie wood, and down among the
rocks on the Elie coast, and in many other places."

"Well and good, Madame. What by that? Young things will be young
things."

"What by that? Do you, a woman of your age, ask me such a question?
When a gentleman of good blood and family, as well as great wealth,
goes walking and driving with a poor girl of no family at all, do you
ask what by that? Nothing but disgrace and trouble can be looked for."

"Speak for your own kin and side, Madame. And I should think a woman of
your age--being at least twenty years older than myself--would know
that true love never asks for a girl's pedigree. And as for 'disgrace,'
Sophy Traill will never call anything like 'disgrace' to herself. I
will allow that Sophy is poor, but as for family, the Traills are of
the best Norse strain. They were sea-fighters, hundreds of years before
they were sea-fishers; and they had been 'at home' on the North Sea,
and in all the lands about it, centuries before the like of the
Braelands were thought or heard tell of."

Mistress Kilgour was rapidly becoming angry, and Madame would have been
wise to have noted the circumstance; but she herself was now past all
prudence, and with an air of contempt she took out her jewelled watch,
and beginning to slowly wind it, said:--

"My good woman, Sophy's father was a common fisherman. We have no call
to go back to the time when her people were pirates and sea-robbers."

"I am _my own_ woman, Madame. And I will take my oath I am not _your_
woman, anyhow. And 'common' or uncommon, the fishermen of Fife call no
man master but the Lord God Almighty, from whose hands they take their
food, summer and winter. And I will make free to say, moreover, that if
Braelands loves Sophy Traill and she loves him, worse might befall him
than Sophy for a wife. For if God thinks fit to mate them, it is not
Griselda Kilgour that will take upon herself to contradict the Will of
Heaven."

"Don't talk rubbish, Mistress Kilgour. People who live in society have
to regard what society thinks and says."

"It is no ways obligatory, Madame, the voice of God and Nature has more
weight, I'm thinking, and if God links two together, you will find it
gey and hard to separate them."

"I heard the girl was promised since her babyhood to a fisherman called
Andrew Binnie."

"For once you have heard the truth, Madame. But you know yourself that
babyhood and womanhood are two different things; and the woman has just
set at naught the baby. That is all."

"No, it is not all. This Andrew Binnie is a man of great influence
among the fishers, and my son cannot afford to make enemies among that
class. It will be highly prejudicial to him."

"I cannot help that Madame. Braelands is well able to row his own boat.
At any rate, I am not called to take an oar in it."

"Yes, you are. I have been a good customer to you, Mistress Kilgour."

"I am not denying it; at the same time I have been a good dress and
bonnet maker to you, and earned every penny-bit you have paid me. The
obligation is mutual, I'm thinking."

"I can be a still better customer if you will prevent this
gentle-shepherding and love-making. I would not even scruple at a
twenty pound note, or perhaps two of them."

"_Straa_! If you were Queen of England, Madame, I would call you an
insolent dastard, to try and bribe me against my own flesh and blood.
You are a very Judas, to think of such a thing. Good blood! fine
family! indeed! If your son is like yourself, I'm not caring for him
coming into my family at all."

"Mistress Kilgour, you may close my account with you. I shall employ
you no more."

"Pay me the sixteen pounds odd you owe me, and then I will shut my
books forever against Braelands. Accounts are not closed till
outstanding money is paid in."

"I shall send the money."

"The sight of the money would be better than the promise of it, Madame;
for some of it is owing more than a twelvemonth;" and Mistress Kilgour
hastily turned over to the Braelands page of her ledger, while Madame,
with an air of affront and indignation, hastily left the shop.

Following this wordy battle with her dressmaker, Madame had an equally
stubborn one with her son, the immediate consequence of which was that
very interview whose close was witnessed by Andrew Binnie. In this
conference Braelands acknowledged his devotion to Sophy, and earnestly
pleaded for Mistress Kilgour's favour for his suit. She was now quite
inclined to favour him. Her own niece, as mistress of Braelands, would
be not only a great social success, but also a great financial one.
Madame Braelands's capacity for bonnets was two every year; Sophy's
capacity was unlimited. Madame considered four dresses annually quite
extravagant; Sophy's ideas on the same subject were constantly
enlarging. And then there would be the satisfaction of overcoming
Madame. So she yielded easily and gracefully to Archie Braelands's
petition, and thus Sophy suddenly found herself able to do openly what
she had hitherto done secretly, and the question of her marriage with
Braelands accepted as an understood conclusion.

At this sudden culmination of her hardly acknowledged desires, the girl
was for a short tune distracted. She felt that Andrew must now be
definitely resigned, and a strangely sad feeling of pity and reluctance
assailed her. There were moments she knew not which lover was dearest
to her. The habit of loving Andrew had grown through long years in her
heart; she trusted him as she trusted no other mortal, she was not
prepared to give up absolutely all rights in a heart so purely and so
devotedly her own. For if she knew anything, she knew right well that
no other man would ever give her the same unfaltering, unselfish
affection.

And when she dared to consider truthfully her estimate of Archie
Braelands, she judged his love, passionate as it was, did not ring true
through all its depths. There were times when her little _gaucheries_
fretted him; when her dress did not suit him; when he put aside an
engagement with her for a sail with a lord, or a dinner party with
friends, or a social function at his own home. Andrew put no one before
her; and even the business that kept him from her side was all for her
future happiness. Every object and every aim of his life had reference
to her. It was hard to give up such a perfect love, and she felt that
she could not see Andrew face to face and do it. Hence her refusals to
meet him, and her shyness and silence when a meeting was unavoidable.
Hence, also, came a very peculiar attitude of Andrew's friends and
mates; for they could not conceive how Andrew's implicit faith in his
love should prevent him from finding out what was so evident to every
man and woman in Largo.

Alas! the knowledge had now come to him. That it could have come in any
harder way, it is difficult to believe. There was only one palliation
to its misery--it was quite unpremeditated--but even this mitigation
of the affront hardly brought him any comfort as yet Braelands was
certainly deeply grieved at the miserable outcome of the meeting. He
knew the pride of the fisher race, and he had himself a manly instinct,
strong enough to understand the undeserved humiliation of Andrew's
position. Honestly, as a gentleman, he was sorry the quarrel had taken
place; as a lover, he was anxious to turn it to his own advantage. For
he saw that, in spite of all her coldness and apparent apathy, Sophy
was affected and wounded by Andrew's bitter imploration and its
wretched and sorrowful ending. If the man should gain her ear and
sympathy, Braelands feared for the result. He therefore urged her to an
immediate marriage; and when Mistress Kilgour was taken into counsel,
she encouraged the idea, because of the talk which was sure to follow
such a flagrant breach of the courtesies of life.

But even at this juncture, Sophy's vanity must have its showing; and
she refused to marry, until at least two or three suitable dresses
should have been prepared; so the uttermost favour that could be
obtained from the stubborn little bride was a date somewhere within two
weeks away.

During these two weeks there was an unspeakable unhappiness in the
Binnie household. For oh, how dreary are those wastes of life, left by
the loved who have deserted us! These are the vacant places we water
with our bitterest tears. Had Sophy died, Andrew would have said, "It
is the Lord; let him do what seemeth right in his sight." But the
manner and the means of his loss filled him with a dumb sorrow and
rage; for in spite of his mother's and sister's urging, he would do
nothing to right his own self-respect at the price of giving Sophy the
slightest trouble or notoriety. Suffer! Yes, he suffered at home, where
Janet and Christina continually reminded him of the insult he ought to
avenge; and he suffered also abroad, where his mates looked at him with
eyes full of surprise and angry inquiries.

But though the village was ringing with gossip about Sophy and young
Braelands, never a man or woman in it ventured to openly question the
stern, sullen, irritable man who had been so long recognised as her
accepted lover. And whether he was in the boats or out of them, no one
dared to speak Sophy's name in his presence. Indeed, upon the whole, he
was during these days what Janet Binnie called "an ill man to live
with--a man out of his senses, and falling away from his meat and his
clothes."

This misery continued for about two weeks without any abatement, and
Janet's and Christina's sympathy was beginning to be tinged with
resentment. It seems so unnatural and unjust, that a girl who had
already done them so much wrong, and who was so far outside their daily
life, should have the power to still darken their home, and infuse a
bitter drop into their peculiar joys and hopes.

"I am glad the wicked lass isn't near by me," said Janet one morning,
when Andrew had declared himself unable to eat his breakfast and gone
out of the cottage to escape his mother's pleadings and reproofs. "I'm
glad she isn't near me. If she was here, I could not keep my tongue
from her. She should hear the truth for once, if she never heard it
again. They should be words as sharp as the birch rod she ought to have
had, when she first began her nonsense, and her airs and graces."

"She is a bad girl; but we must remember that she was left much to
herself--no mother to guide her, no sister or brother either."

"It would have been a pity if there had been more of them. One scone of
that baking is enough. The way she has treated our Andrew is
abominable. Flesh and blood can't bear such doings."

As Janet made this assertion, a cousin of Sophy's came into the
cottage, and answered her. "I know you are talking of Sophy," she said,
"and I am not wondering at the terrivee you are making. As for me,
though she is my cousin, I'll never exchange the Queen's language with
her again as long as I live in this world. But all bad things come to
an end, as well as good ones, and I am bringing what will put a stop at
last to all this clishmaclaver about that wearisome lassie,"--and with
these words she handed Janet two shining white cards, tied together
with a bit of silver wire.

They were Sophy's wedding cards; and she had also sent from Edinburgh a
newspaper containing a notice of her marriage to Archibald Braelands.
The news was very satisfactory to Janet. She held the bits of cardboard
with her fingertips, looking grimly at the names upon them. Then she
laughed, not very pleasantly, at the difference in the size of the
cards. "He has the wee card now," she said, "and Sophy the big one; but
I'm thinking the wee one will grow big, and the big one grow little
before long. I will take them to Andrew myself; the sight of them will
be a bitter medicine, but it will do him good. Folks may count it great
gain when they get rid of a false hope."

Andrew was walking moodily about the bit of bare turf in front of the
cottage door, stopping now and then to look over the sea, where the
brown sails of some of the fishing boats still caught the lazy south
wind. He was thinking that the sea was cloudy, and that there was an
evil-looking sky to the eastward; and then, as his mind took in at the
same moment the dangers to the fishers who people the grey waters and
his own sorrowful wrong, he turned and began to walk about
muttering--"Lord help us! We must bear what is sent."

Then Janet called him, and he watched for her approach. She put the
cards into his hand saying, "Sophy's cousin, Isobel Murray, brought
them." Her voice was full of resentment; and Andrew, not at the moment
realising a custom so unfamiliar in a fishing-village, looked
wonderingly in his mother's face, and then at the fateful white
messengers.

"Read the names on them, Andrew man, and you'll know then why they are
sent to Pittendurie."

Then he looked steadily at the inscription, and the struggle of the
inner man shook the outward man visibly. It was like a shot in the
backbone. But it was only for a moment he staggered; though he had few
resources, his faith in the Cross and his confidence in himself made
him a match for his hard fate. It is in such critical moments the soul
reveals if it be selfish or generous, and Andrew, with a quick upward
fling of the head, regained absolutely that self-control, which he had
voluntarily abdicated.

"You will tell Isobel," he said, "that I wish Mistress Braelands every
good thing, both for this life and the next." Then he stepped closer to
his mother and kissed her; and Janet was so touched and amazed that she
could not speak. But the look of loving wonder on her face was far
better than words. And as she stood looking at him, Andrew put the
cards in his pocket, and went down to the sea; and Janet returned to
the cottage and gave Isobel the message he had sent.

But this information, so scanty and yet so conclusive, by no means
satisfied the curiosity of the women. A great deal of indignation was
expressed by Sophy's kindred and friends in the village at her total
ignoring of their claims. They did not expect to be invited to a house
like Braelands; but they did think Sophy ought to have visited them and
told them all about her preparations and future plans. They were her
own flesh and blood, and they deeply resented her non-recognition of
the claims of kindred. Isobel, as the central figure of this
dissatisfaction, was a very important person. She at least had received
"cards," and the rest of the cousins to the sixth degree felt that they
had been grossly slighted in the omission. So Isobel, for the sake of
her own popularity, was compelled to make common cause, and to assert
positively that "she thought little of the compliment." Sophy only
wanted her folk to know she was now Mistress Braelands, and she had
picked her out to carry the news--good or bad news, none yet could say.

Janet was not inclined to discuss the matter with her. She was so cold
about it, that Isobel quickly discovered she had 'work to finish at her
own house,' for she recollected that if the Binnies were not inclined
to talk over the affair there were plenty of wives and maids in
Pittendurie who were eager to do so. So Janet and Christina were
quickly left to their own opinions on the marriage, the first of which
was, that "Sophy had behaved very badly to them."

"But I wasn't going to say bad words for Isobel to clash round the
village," said Janet "and I am gey glad Andrew took the news so
man-like and so Christian-like. They can't make any speculations about
Andrew now, and that will be a sore disappointment to the hussies, for
some of them are but ill willy creatures."

"I am glad Andrew kept a brave heart, and could bring good words out of
it."

"What else would you expect from Andrew? Do you think Andrew Binnie
will fret himself one moment about a wife that is not his wife? He
would not give the de'il such a laugh over him. You may take my word,
that he will break no commandment for any lass; and Sophy Braelands
will now have to vacate his very thoughts."

"I am glad she is married then. If her marriage cures Andrew of that
never-ending fret about her, it will be a comfort."

"It is a cure, sure as death, as far as your brother is concerned.
Fancy Andrew Binnie pining and worrying about Archie Braelands's wife!
The thing would be sinful, and therefore fairly impossible to him! I'm
as glad as you are that no worse than marriage has come to the lass;
she is done with now, and I am wishing her no more ill than she has
called to herself."

"She has brought sorrow enough to our house," said Christina. "All the
days of my own courting have been saddened and darkened with the worry
and the care of her. Andrew was always either that set up or that
knocked down about her, that he could not give a thought to Jamie's and
my affairs. It was only when you talked about Sophy, or his wedding
with Sophy, that he looked as if the world was worth living in. He was
fast growing into a real selfish man."

"_Toots!_ Every one in love--men or women--are as selfish as they can
be. The whole round world only holds two folk: their own self, and
another. I would like to have a bit of chat before long, that did not
set itself to love-making and marrying."

"Goodness, Mother! You have not chatted much with me lately about
love-making and marrying. Andrew's trouble has filled the house, and
you have hardly said a word about poor Jamie, who never gave either of
us a heartache. I wonder where he is to-day!"

Janet thought a moment and then answered: "He would leave New York for
Scotland, last Saturday. 'T is Wednesday morning now, and he will maybe
reach Glasgow next Tuesday. Then it will not take him many hours to
find himself in Pittendurie."

"I doubt it. He will not be let come and go as he wants to. It would
not be reasonable. He will have to obey orders. And when he gets off,
it will be a kind of favour. A steamboat and a fishing-boat are two
different things, Mother, forbye, Jamie is but a new hand, and will
have his way to win."

"What are you talking about, you silly, fearful lassie? It would be a
poor-like, heartless captain, that had not a fellow-feeling for a lad
in love. Jamie will just have to tell him about yourself, and he will
send the lad off with a laugh, or maybe a charge not to forget the
ship's sailing-day. Hope well, and have well, lassie."

"You'll be far mistaken, Mother. I am not expecting Jamie for more than
two or three trips--but he'll be thinking of me, and I can not help
thinking of him."

"Think away, Christina. Loving thoughts keep out others, not as good. I
wonder how it would do to walk as far as Largo, and find out all about
the marriage from Griselda Kilgour. Then _I_ would have the essentials,
and something worth telling and talking about."

"I would go, Mother. Griselda will be thirsty to tell all she knows,
and just distracted with the glory of her niece. She will hold herself
very high, no doubt."

"Griselda and her niece are two born fools, and I am not to be put to
the wall by the like of them. And it is not beyond hoping, that I'll be
able to give the woman a mouthful of sound advice. She's a set-up body,
but I shall disapprove of all she says."

"You may disapprove till you are black in the face, Mother, but
Griselda will hold her own; she is neither flightersome, nor easy
frightened. I'm feared it is going to rain. I see the glass has
fallen."

"I'm not minding the 'glass'. The sky is clear, and I think far more of
the sky, and the look of it, than I do of the 'glass'. I wonder at
Andrew hanging it in our house; it is just sinful and unlucky to be
taking the change of the weather out of His hands. But rain or fine, I
am going to Largo."

As she spoke, she was taking out of her kist a fine Paisley shawl and a
bonnet, and with Christina's help she was soon dressed to her own
satisfaction. Fortunately one of the fishers was going with his cart to
Largo, so she got a lift over the road, and reached Griselda Kilgour's
early in the afternoon. There were no bonnets and caps in the window of
the shop, and when Janet entered, the place had a covered-up,
Sabbath-day look that kindled her curiosity. The ringing of the bell
quickly brought Mistress Kilgour forward, and she also had an unusual
look. But she seemed pleased to see Janet, and very heartily asked her
into the little parlour behind.

"I'm just home," she said, "and I'm making myself a cup of tea ere I
sort up the shop and get to my day's work again. Sit down, Janet, and
take off your things, and have a cup with me. Strange days and strange
doings in them lately!"

"You may well lift up your eyes and your hands, Griselda. I never heard
tell of the like. The whole village is in a flustration; and I just
came o'er-by, to find out from you the long and the short of
everything. I'm feared you have been sorely put about with the wilful
lass."

"Mistress Braelands had no one to lippen to but me. I had everything to
look after. The Master of Braelands was that far gone in love, he
wasn't to be trusted with anything. But my niece has done a good job
for herself."

"It is well _some one_ has got good out of her treachery. She brought
sorrow enough to my house. But I'm glad it is all over, and that
Braelands has got her. She wouldn't have suited my son at all,
Griselda."

"Not in the least," answered the dressmaker with an air of offence.
"How many lumps of sugar, Janet?"

"I'm not taking sugar. Where was the lass married?"

"In Edinburgh." We didn't want any talk and fuss about the wedding, and
Braelands he said to me, 'Mistress Kilgour, if you will take a little
holiday, and go with Sophy to Edinburgh, and give her your help about
the things she requires, we shall both of us be your life-long
debtors.' And I thought Edinburgh was the proper place, and so I went
with Sophy--putting up a notice on the shop door that I had gone to
look at the winter fashions and would be back to-day--and here I am for
I like to keep my word.

"You didn't keep it with my Andrew, for you promised to help him with
Sophy, you promised that more than once or twice."

"No one can help a man who fights against himself, and Andrew never did
prize Sophy as Braelands did, the way that man ran after the lass, and
coaxed and courted and pleaded with her! And the bonnie things he gave
her! And the stone blind infatuation of the creature! Well I never saw
the like. He was that far gone in love, there was nothing for him but
standing up before the minister."

"What minister?"

"Dr. Beith of St. Andrews. Braelands sits in St. Andrews, when he is in
Edinburgh for the winter season and Dr. Beith is knowing him well. I
wish you could have seen the dresses and the mantillas, the bonnets and
the fineries of every sort I had to buy Sophy, not to speak of the
rings and gold chains and bracelets and such things, that Braelands
just laid down at her feet."

"What kind of dresses?"

"Silks and satins--white for the wedding-dress--and pink, and blue and
tartan and what not! I tell you McFinlay and Co. were kept busy day and
night for Sophy Braelands."

Then Mistress Kilgour entered into a minute description of all Sophy's
beautiful things, and Janet listened attentively, not only for her own
gratification, but also for that of every woman in Pittendurie. Indeed
she appeared so interested that her entertainer never suspected the
anger she was restraining with difficulty until her curiosity had been
satisfied. But when every point had been gone over, when the last thing
about Sophy's dress and appearance had been told and discussed, Janet
suddenly inquired, "Have they come back to Largo yet?"

"Indeed nothing so common," answered Griselda, proudly. "They have gone
to foreign lands--to France, and Italy, and Germany,"--and then with a
daring imagination she added, "and it's like they won't stop short of
Asia and America."

"Well, Jamie Logan, my Christina's promised man is on the American
line. I dare say he will be seeing her on his ship, and no doubt he
will do all he can to pleasure her."

"Jamie Logan! Sophy would not think of noticing him now. It would not
be proper."

"What for not? He is as good a man as Archie Braelands, and if all
reports be true, a good deal better."

"_Archie_ indeed! I'm thinking 'Master Braelands' would be more as it
should be."

"I'll never 'master' him. He is no 'master' of mine. What for does he
have a Christian name, if he is not to be called by it?"

"Well, Janet, you need not show your temper. Goodness knows, it is as
short as a cat's hair. And Braelands is beyond your tongue, anyhow."

"I'm not giving him a word. Sophy will pay every debt he is owing me
and mine. The lassie has been badly guided all her life, and as she
would not be ruled by the rudder, she must be ruled by the rocks."

"Think shame of yourself! For speaking ill to a new-made bride! How
would you like me to say such words to Christina?"

"Christina would never give occasion for them. She is as true as steel
to her own lad."

"Maybe she has no temptation to be false. That makes a deal of differ.
Anyway, Sophy is a woman now in the married state, and answerable to
none but her husband. I hope Andrew is not fretting more than might be
expected."

"Andrew! Andrew fretting! Not he! Not a minute! As soon as he knew she
was a wife, he cast her out of his very thoughts. You don't catch
Andrew Binnie putting a light-of-love lassie before a command of God."

"I won't hear you talk of my niece--of the mistress of Braelands--in
that kind of a way, Janet. She's our betters now, and we be to take
notice of the fact."

"She'll have to learn and unlearn a good lot before she is to be spoke
of as any one's 'betters.' I hope while she is seeing the world she
will get her eyes opened to her own faults; they will give her plenty
to think of."

"Keep me, woman! Such a way to go on about your own kin."

"She is no kin to the Binnies. I have cast her out of my reckoning."

"She is Christina's sixth cousin."

"She is nothing at all to us. I never did set any store by those Orkney
folks--a bad lot! A very selfish, false, bad lot!"

"You are speaking of my people, Janet."

"I am quite aware of it, Griselda."

"Then keep your tongue in bounds."

"My tongue is my own."

"My house is my own. And if you can't be civil, I'll be necessitated to
ask you to leave it."

"I'm going as soon as I have told you that you have the most
gun-powdery temper I ever came across; forbye, you are fairly drunk
with the conceit and vanity of Sophy's grand marriage. You are full as
the Baltic with the pride of it, woman!"

"Temper! It is you, that are in a temper."

"That's neither here nor there. I have my reasons."

"Reasons, indeed! I'd like to see you reasonable for once."

"Yes, I have my reasons. How was my lad Andrew used by the both of you?
And what do you think of his last meeting with that heartless limmer
and her fine sweetheart?"

"Andrew should have kept himself out of their way. As soon as Braelands
came round Sophy, Andrew got the very de'il in him. I was aye feared
there would be murder laid to his name."

"You needn't have been feared for the like of that. Andrew Binnie has
enough of the devil in him to keep the devil out of him. Do you think
he would put blood on his soul for Sophy Traill? No, not for twenty
lasses better than her! You needn't look at me as if your eyes were
cocked pistols. I have heard all I wanted to hear, and said all I
wanted to say, and now I'll be stepping homeward."

"I'll be obligated to you to go at once--the sooner the better."

"And I'll never speak to you again in this world, Griselda; nor in the
next world either, unless you mend your manners. Mind that!"

"You are just full of envy, and all uncharitableness, and evil
speaking, Janet Binnie. But I trust I have more of the grace of God
about me than to return your ill words."

"That may be. It only shows folk that the grace of God will bide with
an old woman that no one else can bide with."

"Old woman! I am twenty years younger--"

But Janet had passed out of the room and clashed the shop door behind
her with a pealing ring; so Griselda's little scream of indignation
never reached her. It is likely, however, she anticipated the words
that followed her, for she went down the street, folding her shawl over
her ample chest, and smiling the smile of those who have thrown the
last word of offence.

She did not reach home until quite dark, for she was stopped frequently
by little groups of the wives and maids of Pittendurie, who wanted to
hear the news about Sophy. It pleased Janet, for some reason, to
magnify the girl's position and all the fine things it had brought her.
Perhaps, because she felt dimly that it placed Andrew's defeat in a
better Tight. No one could expect a mere fisherman to have any chance
against a man able to shower silks and satins and gold and jewels upon
his bride, and who could take her to France and Italy and Germany, not
to speak of Asia and America.

But if this was her motive, it was a bit of motherhood thrown away.
Andrew had sources of comfort and vindication which looked far beyond
all petty social opinion. He was on the sea alone till nearly dark;
then he came home, with the old grave smile on his face, saying, as he
entered the house, "There will be a heavy blow from the northeast
to-night, Christina. I see the boats are all at anchor, and no prospect
of a fishing."

"Ay, and I saw the birds, who know more than we do, making for the
rocks. I wish mother would come,"--and she opened the door and looked
out into the dark vacancy. "There is a voice in the sea to-night,
Andrew, and I don't like the wail of it."

But Andrew had gone to his room, and so she left the door open until
Janet returned. And the first question Janet asked was concerning
Andrew. "Has he come home yet, Christina? I'm feared for a boat on the
sea to-night."

"He is home, and I think he has fallen asleep. He looked very tired."

"How is he taking his trouble?"

"Like a man. Like himself. He has had his wrestle out on the sea, and
has come out with a victory."

"The Lord be thanked! Now, Christina, I have heard everything about
that wicked lassie. Let us have a cup of tea and a herring--for it is
little good I had of Griselda's wishy-washy brew--and then I'll tell
you the news of the wedding, the beginning and the end of it."




CHAPTER VI

WHERE IS MY MONEY?


In the morning it was still more evident that Andrew had thrown himself
on God, and--unperplext seeking, had found him. But Janet wondered a
little that he did not more demonstratively seek the comfort of The
Book. It was her way in sorrow to appeal immediately to its known
passages of promise and comfort, and she laid it open in his way with
the remark:

"There is the Bible. Andrew; it will have a word, no doubt, for you."

"And there is the something beyond the Bible, Mother, if you will be
seeking it. When the Lord God speaks to a man, he has the perfection of
counsel, and he will not be requiring the word of a prophet or an
apostle. From the heart of The Unseen a voice calls to him, and gives
him patience under suffering. I _know_, for I have heard and answered
it." Then he walked to the door, and opening it, he stood there
repeating to himself, as he looked over the waters which had been the
field of his conflict and his victory:--

  "But peace they have that none may gain that live;
  And rest about them that no love can give
  And over them, while death and life shall be,
  The light and sound and darkness of the Sea."

It was a verse that meant more to Andrew than he would have been able
to explain. He only knew that it led him somehow through those dim,
obscure pathways of spiritual life, on which the light of common day
does not shine. And as he stood there, his mother and sister felt
vaguely that they knew what "moral beauty" meant, and were the better
for the knowledge.

He did not try to forget Sophy; he only placed her beyond his own
horizon; and whereas he had once thought of her with personal hope and
desire, he now remembered her only with a prayer for her happiness, or
if by chance his tongue spoke her name, he added a blessing with it.
Never did he make a complaint of her desertion, but he wept inwardly;
and it was easy to see that he spent many of those hours that make the
heart grey, though they leave the hair untouched. And it was at this
time he contracted the habit of frequently looking up, finding in the
very act that sense of strength and help and adoration which is
inseparable to it. And thus, day by day, he overcame the aching sorrow
of his heart, for no man is ever crushed from without; if he is abased
to despair, his ruin has come from within.

About three weeks after Sophy's marriage, Christina was standing one
evening at the gloaming, looking over the immense, cheerless waste of
waters. Mists, vague and troublous as the background of dreams, were on
the horizon, and there Was a feeling of melancholy in the air. But she
liked the damp, fresh wind, with its taste of brine, and she drew her
plaid round her, and breathed it with a sense of enjoyment. Very soon
Andrew came up the cliff, and he stood at her side, and they spoke of
Jamie and wondered at his whereabouts, and after a little pause, Andrew
added:--

"Christina, I got a very important letter to-day, and I am going
to-morrow about the business I told you of. I want to start early in
the morning, so put up what I need in my little bag. And I wish you to
say nothing to mother until all things are settled."

"She will maybe ask me the question, Andrew."

"I told her I was going about a new boat, and she took me at my word
without this or that to it. She is a blithe creature, one of the Lord's
most contented bairns. I wish we were both more like her."

"I wish we were, Andrew. If we could just do as mother does! for she
leaves yesterday where it fell, and trusts to-morrow with God, and so
catches every blink of happiness that passes by her."

"God forever bless her! There is no mother like the mother that bore
us; we must aye remember that, Christina. But it is a dour, storm-like
sky yon," he continued, pointing eastward. "We shall have a snoring
breeze before midnight."

Then Christina thought of her lover again, and as they turned in to the
fireside, she began to tell her brother her hopes and fears about
Jamie, and to read him portions of a letter received that day from
America. While Andrew's trouble had been fresh and heavy on him,
Christina had refrained herself from all speech about her lover; she
felt instinctively that it would not be welcome and perhaps hardly
kind. But this night it fell out naturally, and Andrew listened kindly
and made his sister very happy by his interest in all that related to
Jamie's future. Then he ate some bread and cheese with the women, and
after the exercise went to his room, for he had many things to prepare
for his journey on the following day.

Janet continued the conversation. It related to her daughter's marriage
and settlement in Glasgow, and of this subject she never wearied.

The storm Andrew had foreseen was by this time raging round the
cottage, the Clustering waves making strange noises on the sands and
falling on the rocks with a keen, lashing sound It affected them
gradually; their hearts became troubled, and they spoke low and with
sad inflections, for both were thinking of the sailor-men and fishermen
peopling the lonely waters.

"I wouldn't put out to sea this night," said Janet. "No, not for a
capful of sovereigns."

"Yet there will be plenty of boats, hammering through the big waves all
night long, till the dawn shows in the east; and it is very like that
Jamie is now on the Atlantic--a stormy place, God knows!"

"A good passage, if it so pleases God!" said Janet, lifting her eyes to
heaven, and Christina looked kindly at her mother for the wish. But
talking was fast becoming difficult, for the wind had suddenly veered
more northerly, and, sleet-laden, it howled and shrieked down the wide
chimney. In one of the pauses forced on them by this blatant intruder,
they were startled by a human cry, loud and piercing, and quite
distinct from the turbulent roar of winds and waves.

Both women were on their feet on the instant Both had received the same
swift, positive impression, that it came from Andrew's room, and they
were at his door in a moment. It was locked. They called him, and he
made no answer. Again and again, with ever increasing terror, they
entreated him to open to them; for the door was solid and heavy, and
the lock large and strong, and no power they possessed could avail to
force an entrance. He heeded none of, their passionate prayers until
Janet began to cry bitterly. Then he turned the key and they entered.

Andrew looked at them with anger; his countenance was pale and
distraught, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. He could not speak,
and the women regarded him with fear and wonder. Presently he managed
to articulate with a thick difficulty:--

"My money! My money! It is all gone!"

"Gone!" shrieked Christina, "that is just impossible."

"It is all gone!" Then he gripped her cruelly by the shoulder, and
asked in a fierce whisper:

"What did you do with it?"

"Me? Andrew!"

"Ay, you! You wicked lass, you!"

"I never put finger on it"

"Christina! Christina! To think that I trusted you for this! Go out of
my sight, will you! I'm not able to bear the face of you!"

"Andrew! Andrew! Surely, you are not calling me a 'thief'?"

"Who, then?" he cried, with gathering rage, "unless it be Jamie Logan?"

"Don't be so wicked as to wrong innocent folk such a way; Jamie never
saw, never heard tell of your money. The unborn babe is not more
guiltless than Jamie Logan."

"How do _you_ know that? How do _I_ know that? The very night I told
you of the money--that very night I showed you where I kept it--that
night Jamie ought to have been in the boats, and he was not in them.
What do you make of that?"

"Nothing. He is as innocent as I am."

"And he was drinking with some strange man at the public. What were
they up to? Tell me that. And then he comes whistling up the road, and
says he missed his boat. A made up story! and after it he goes off to
America! Oh. woman! woman! If you can't put facts together. I can."

"Jamie never touched a bawbee of your money. I'll ware my life on that.
For I never let on to any mortal creature that you had a penny of
silent money. God Almighty knows I am speaking the truth."

"You won't dare to bring God Almighty's name into such a black
business. Are you not feared to take it into your mouth?"

Then Janet laid her hand heavily on his shoulder. He had sat down on
his bed, and was leaning heavily against one of the posts, and the very
fashion of his countenance was changed; his hair stood upright, and he
continually smote his large, nervous hands together.

"Andrew," said his mother, angrily, "you are just giving yourself up to
Satan. Your passion is beyond seeing, or hearing tell of. And think
shame of yourself for calling your sister a 'thief and a 'liar' and
what not. I wonder what's come over you! Step ben the house, and talk
reasonable to us."

"Leave me to myself! Leave me to myself! I tell you both to go away.
Will you go? both of you?"

"I'm your mother, Andrew."

"Then for God's sake have pity on me, and leave me alone with my
sorrow! Go! Go! I'm not a responsible creature just now--" and his
passion was so stern and terrific that neither of them dared to face
any increase of it.

So they left him alone and went back to the sputtering fireside--for
the rain was now beating down the chimney--and in awe-struck whispers
Christina told her mother of the money which Andrew had hoarded through
long laborious years, and of the plans which the loss of it would break
to pieces.

"There would be a thousand pounds, or near by it. Mother, I'm
thinking," said Christina. "You know well how scrimping with himself he
has been. Good fishing or bad fishing, he never had a shilling to spend
on any one. He bought nothing other boys bought; when he was a laddie,
and when he grew to the boats, you may mind that he put all he made
away somewhere. And he made a deal more than folks thought. He had a
bit venture here, and a bit there, and they must have prospered
finely."

"Not they!" said Janet angrily. "What good has come of them? What good
_could_ come of money, hid away from everybody but himself? Why didn't
he tell his mother? If her thoughts had been round about his siller, it
would not have gone an ill road. A man who hides away his money is just
a miracle of stupidity, for the devil knows where it is if no decent
human soul does."

It was a mighty sorrow to bear, even for the two women, and Janet wept
like a child over the hopes blasted before she knew of them. "He should
have told us both long since," she sobbed. "I would have been praying
for the bonnie ship building for him, every plank would have been laid
with a blessing. And as I sat quiet in my house, I would have been
thinking of my son Captain Binnie, and many a day would have been a
bright day, that has been but a middling one. So selfish as the lad has
been!"

"Maybe it wasn't pure selfishness, Mother. He was saving for a good
end."

"It was pure selfishness! He was that way even about Sophy. Nobody but
himself must have word or look from her, and the lassie just wearied of
him. Why wouldn't she? He put himself and her in a circle, and then
made a wilderness all round about it. And Sophy wanted company, for
when a girl says 'a man is all the world to her,' she doesn't mean that
nobody else is to come into her world. She would be a wicked lass if
she did."

"Well, Mother, he lost her, and he bore his loss like a man."

"Ay, men often bear the loss of love easier than the loss of money.
I've seen far more fuss made over the loss of a set of fishing-nets,
than over the brave fellows that handled them. And to think of our
Andrew hiding away his gold all these years for his own hoping and
pleasuring! A perfectly selfish pleasuring! The gold might well take
wings to itself and fly away. He should have clipped the wings of it
with giving a piece to the kirk now and then, and a piece to his mother
and sister at odd times, and the flying wouldn't have been so easy. Now
he has lost the whole, and he well deserves it I'm thinking his Maker
is dourly angry with him for such ways, and I am angry myself."

"Ah well, Mother, there is no use in our anger; the lad is suffering
enough, and for the rest we must just leave him to the general mercy of
God."

"'General mercy of God.' Don't let me hear you use the like of such
words, Christina. The minister would tell you it is a very loose
expression and a very dangerous doctrine. He was reproving Elder
McInnes for them very words, and any good minister will be keeping his
thumb on such a wide outgate. Andrew knows well that he has to have the
particular and elected grace of God to keep him where he ought to be.
This hid-away money has given him a sore tumble, and I will tell him so
very plainly."

"Don't trouble him, Mother. He will not bear words on it, even from
you."

"He will have to bear them. I am not feared for Andrew Binnie, and he
shall not be left in ignorance of his sin. Whether he knows it or not,
he has done a deed that would make a very poor kind of a Christian
ashamed to look the devil in the face; and I be to let him know it."

But in the morning Andrew looked so utterly wretched, that Janet could
only pity him. "I'll not be the one to break the bruised reed," she
said to Christina, for the miserable man sat silent with dropped eyes
the whole day long, eating nothing, seeing nothing, and apparently lost
to all interests outside his own bewildering, utterly hopeless
speculations. It was not until another letter came about the ship he
was to command, that he roused himself sufficiently to write and cancel
the whole transaction. He could not keep his promises financially, and
though he was urged to make some other offer, he would have nothing
from The Fleet on any humbler basis than his first proposition. With a
foolish pride, born of his great disappointment and anger, he turned
his back on his broken hopes, and went sullen and sorrowful back to his
fishing-boat.

He had never been even in his family a very social man. Jokes and songs
and daffing of all kinds were alien to his nature. Yet his grave and
pleasant smile had been a familiar thing, and gentle words had always
hitherto come readily to his lips. But after his ruinous loss, he
seldom spoke unless it was to his mother. Christina he noticed not,
either by word or look, and the poor girl was broken-hearted under this
silent accusation. For she felt that Andrew doubted both her and Jamie,
and though she was indignant at the suspicion, it eat its way into her
heart and tortured her.

For put the thought away as she would, the fact of Jamie's dereliction
that unfortunate night would return and return, and always with a more
suspicious aspect. Who was the man he was drinking with? Nobody in the
village but Jamie, knew him. He had come and gone in a night. It was
possible that, having missed the boat, Jamie had brought his friend up
the cliff to call on her; that, seeing the light in Andrew's room, they
had looked in at the window, and so might have seen Andrew and herself
standing over the money, and then watched until it was returned to its
hiding-place. Jamie _had_ come whistling in a very pronounced manner up
to the house--that might have been because he had been drinking, and
then again, it might not--and then there was his quarrel with Andrew!
Was that a planned affair, in order to give the other man time to carry
off the box? She could not remember whether the curtain had been drawn
across the window or not; and when she dared to name this doubt to
Andrew, he only answered--

"What for are you asking after spilled milk?"

The whole circumstance was so mysterious that it stupified her. And yet
she felt that it contained all the elements of sorrow and separation
between Jamie and herself. However, she kept assuring her heart that
Jamie would be in Glasgow the following week; and she wrote a letter to
meet him, expressing a strong desire that he would "be sure to come to
Pittendurie, as there was most important business." But she did not
like to tell him what the business was, and Jamie did not answer the
request. In fact, the lad could not, without resigning his position
entirely. The ship had been delayed thirty hours by storms, and there
was nearly double tides of work for every man on her in order that she
might be able to keep her next sailing day. Jamie was therefore so
certain that a request to go on shore about his own concerns would be
denied, that he did not even ask the favour.

But he wrote to Christina, and explained to her in the most loving
manner the impossibility of his leaving his duties. He said "that for
her sake, as well as his own, he was obligated to remain at his post,"
and he assured her that this obligation was "a reasonable one."
Christina believed him fully, and was satisfied, her mother only smiled
with shut lips and remained silent; but Andrew spoke with a bitterness
it was hard to forgive; still harder was it to escape from the wretched
inferences his words implied.

"No wonder he keeps away from Pittendurie!" he said with a scornful
laugh. "He'll come here no more--unless he is made to come, and if it
was not for mother's sake, and for your good name, Christina, I would
send the constables to the ship to bring him here this very day."

And Christina could make no answer, save that of passionate weeping.
For it shocked her to see, that her mother did not stand up for Jamie,
but went silently about her house duties, with a face as inscrutable as
the figure-head of Andrew's boat.

Thus backward, every way flew the wheels of life in the Binnie cottage.
Andrew took a grim pleasure in accepting his poverty before his mother
and sister. In the home he made them feel that everything but the
barest necessities were impossible wants. His newspaper was resigned,
his pipe also, after a little struggle He took his tea without sugar,
he put the butter and marmalade aside, as if they were sinful luxuries,
and in fact reduced his life to the most essential and primitive
conditions it was possible to live it on. And as Janet and Christina
were not the bread winners, and did not know the exact state of the
Binnie finances, they felt obliged to follow Andrew's example. Of
course, all Christina's little extravagances of wedding preparations
were peremptorily stopped. There would be no silk wedding gown now. It
began to look, as if there would be no wedding at all.

For Andrew's continual suspicions, spoken and unspoken, insensibly
affected her, and that in spite of her angry denials of them. She
fought against their influence, but often in vain, for Jamie did not
come to Pittendurie either after the second or the third voyage. He was
not to blame; it was the winter season, and delays were constant, and
there were other circumstances--with which he had nothing whatever to
do--that still put him in such a position that to ask for leave of
absence meant asking for his dismissal. And then there would be no
prospect at all of his marriage with Christina.

But the fisher folk, who had their time very much at their own command
and who were nursed in a sense of every individual's independence, did
not realise Jamie's dilemma. It could not be made intelligent to them,
and they began to wonder, and to ask embarrassing questions. Very soon
there was a shake of the head and a sigh of pity whenever "poor
Christina Binnie" was mentioned.

So four wretched months went by, and then one moonlight night in
February, Christina heard the quick footstep and the joyous whistle she
knew so well. She stood up trembling with pleasure; and as Jamie flung
wide the door, she flew to his arms with an irrepressible cry. For some
minutes he saw nothing and cared for nothing but the girl clasped to
his breast; but as she began to sob, he looked at Janet--who had
purposely gone to the china rack that she might have her back to
him--and then at Andrew who stood white and stern, with both hands in
his pockets, regarding him.

The young man was confounded by this reception, he released himself
from Christina's embrace, and stepping forward, asked anxiously "What
ever is the matter with you, Andrew? You aren't like yourself at all.
Why, you are ill, man! Oh, but I'm vexed to see you so changed."

"Where is my money, James Logan? Where is the gold and the bank-notes
you took from me?--the savings of all my lifetime."

"Your money, Andrew? Your gold and bank-notes? _Me_ take your money!
Why, man, you are either mad or joking--and I'm not liking such jokes
either." Then he turned to Christina and asked, "What does he mean, my
dearie?"

"I mean this," cried Andrew with gathering passion, "I mean that I had
nearly a thousand pounds taken out of my room yon night that you should
have gone to the boats--and that you did _not_ go."

"Do you intend to say that I took your thousand pounds? Mind your
words, Andrew Binnie!" and as he spoke, he put Christina behind him and
stood squarely before Andrew. And his face was a flame of passion.

"I am most sure you took it. Prove to me that you did not."

Before the words were finished, they were answered with a blow, the
blow was promptly returned; and then the two men closed in a deadly
struggle. Christina was white and sick with terror, but withal glad
that Andrew had found himself so promptly answered. Janet turned
sharply at the first blow, and threw herself between the men. All the
old prowess of the fish-wife was roused in her.

"How dare you?" she cried in a temper quite equal to their own. "I'll
have no cursing and fighting in my house," and with a twist of her hand
in her son's collar, she threw him back in his chair. Then she turned
to Jamie and cried angrily--

"Jamie Logan, my bonnie lad, if you have got nothing to say for
yourself, you'll do well to take your way down the cliff."

"I have been called a 'thief' in this house," he answered; and wounded
feeling and a bitter sense of wrong made his voice tremble. "I came
here to kiss my bride; and I know nothing at all of what Andrew means.
I will swear it. Give me the Bible."

"Let my Bible alone," shouted Andrew. "I'll have no man swear to a lie
on my Bible. Get out of my house, James Logan, and be thankful that I
don't call the officers to take care of you."

"There is a mad man inside of you, Andrew Binnie, or a devil of some
kind, and you are not fit to be in the same house with good women. Come
with me, Christina. I'll marry you tonight at the Largo minister's
house. Come my dear lassie. Never mind aught you have, but your
plaidie."

Christina rose and put out her hand. Andrew leaped to his feet and
strode between them.

"I will strike you to the ground, if you dare to touch my sister
again," he shouted, and if Janet had not taken both his hands in her
own strong grip, Andrew would have kept his threat. Then Janet's anger
turned most unreasonably upon Christina--

"Go ben the house," she screamed. "Go ben the house, you worrying,
whimpering lassie. You will be having the whole village fighting about
you the next thing."

"I am going with Jamie, Mother."

"I will take very good care, you do _not_ go with Jamie. There is not a
soul, but Jamie Logan, will leave this house tonight. I would just like
to see any other man or woman try it," and she looked defiantly both at
Andrew and Christina.

"I ran the risk of losing my berth to come here," said Jamie. "More
fool, I. I have been called 'thief' and 'loon' for doing it. I came for
your sake, Christina, and now you must go with me for my sake. Come
away, my dearie, and there is none that shall part us more."

Again Christina rose, and again her mother interfered. "You will go out
of this house alone, Jamie Logan. I don't know whether you are right or
wrong. I know nothing about that weary siller. But I do know there has
been nothing but trouble to my boy since he saved you from the sea. I
am not saying it is your fault; but the sea has been against him ever
since, and now you will go away, and you will stay away."

"Christina, am I to go?"

"Go, Jamie, but I will come to you, and there is none that shall keep
me from you."

Then Jamie went, and far down on the sands Christina heard him call,
"Good-bye, Christina! Good-bye!" And she would have answered him, but
Janet had locked the door, and the key was in her pocket. Then for
hours the domestic storm raged, Andrew growing more and more positive
and passionate, until even Janet was alarmed, and with tears and
coaxing persuaded him to go to bed. Still in this hurly burly of
temper, Christina kept her purpose intact. She was determined to go to
Glasgow as soon as she could get outside. If she was in time for a
marriage with Jamie, she would be his wife at once. If Jamie had gone,
then she would hire herself out until the return of his ship.

This was the purpose she intended to carry out in the morning, but
before the dawn her mother awakened her out of a deep sleep. She was in
a sweat of terror.

"Run up the cliff for Thomas Roy," she cried, "and then send Sandy for
the doctor."

"What is the matter, Mother."

"Your brother Andrew is raving, and clean beyond himself, and I'm
feared for him, and for us all. Quick Christina! There is not a moment
to lose!"




CHAPTER VII

THE BEGINNING OF THE END


On this same night the Mistress of Braelands sat musing by the glowing
bit of fire in her bedroom, while her maid, Allister, was folding away
her silk dinner-gown, and making the preparations for the night's
toilet. She was a stately, stern-looking woman, with that air of
authority which comes from long and recognised position. Her
dressing-gown of pale blue flannel fell amply around her tall form; her
white hair was still coiled and puffed in an elaborate fashion, and
there was at the wrist-bands of her sleeves a fall of lace which half
covered her long, shapely white hands. She was pinching its plaits
mechanically, and watching the effect as she idly turned them in the
firelight to catch the gleam of opal and amethyst rings. But this
accompaniment to her thoughts was hardly a conscious one; she had
admired her hands for so many years that she was very apt to give to
their beauty this homage of involuntary observation, even when her
thoughts were fixed on subjects far-off and alien to them.

"Allister," she said, suddenly, "I wonder where Mr. Archibald will be
this night."

"The Lord knows, Madame, and it is well he does; for it is little we
know of ourselves and the ways we walk in."

"The Lord looks after his own, Allister, and Mr. Archibald was given to
him by kirk and parents before he was a month old. But if a man marries
such a woman as you know nothing about, and then goes her ways, what
will you say then?"

"It is not as bad as that, Madame. Mrs. Archibald is of well-known
people, though poor."

"Though low-born, Allister. Poverty can be tholed, and even respected;
but for low birth there is no remedy but being born over again."

"Well, Madame, she is Braelands now, and that is a cloak to cover all
defects; and if I was you I would just see that it did so."

"She is my son's wife, and must be held as such, both by gentle and
simple."

"And there is few ills that have not a good side to them, Madame. If
Mr. Archibald had married Miss Roberta Elgin, as you once feared he
would do, there would have been a flitting for you and for me, Madame.
Miss Roberta would have had the whole of Braelands House to herself,
and the twenty-two rooms of it wouldn't have been enough for her. And
she would have taken the Braelands's honour and glory on her own
shoulders. It would have been 'Mrs. Archibald Braelands' here and there
and everywhere, and you would have been pushed out of sight and
hearing, and passed by altogether, like as not; for if youth and beauty
and wealth and good blood set themselves to have things their own way,
which way at all will age that is not rich keep for itself? Sure as
death, Madame, you would have had to go to the Dower House, which is
but a mean little place, though big enough, no doubt, for all the
friends and acquaintances that would have troubled themselves to know
you there."

"You are not complimentary, Allister. I think I have few friends who
would _not_ have followed me to the Dower House."

"Surely, Madame, you may as well think so. But carriages aye stop at
big houses; indeed, the very coachmen and footmen and horses are dead
set against calling at cottages. There is many a lady who would be
feared to ask her coachman to call at the Dower House. But what for am
I talking? There is no occasion to think that Mrs. Archibald will ever
dream of sending you out of his house."

"I came here a bride, nearly forty years ago, Allister," she said, with
a touch of sentimental pity for herself in the remembrance.

"So you have had a long lease, Madame, and one like to be longer; for
never a better son than your son; and I do think for sure that the lady
he has married will be as biddable as a very child with you."

"I hope so. For she will have everything to learn about society, and
who can teach her better than I can, Allister?"

"No one, Madame; and Mrs. Archibald was ever good at the uptake. I am
very sure if you will show her this and that, and give her the word
here and there yourself, Madame, there will be no finer lady in Fife
before the year has come and gone. And she cannot be travelling with
Mr. Archibald without learning many a thing all the winter long."

"Yes, they will not be home before the spring, I hear."

"And oh, Madame, by that date you will have forgot that all was not as
you wanted it! And no doubt you will give the young things the loving
welcome they are certain to be longing for."

"I do not know, Allister. The marriage was a great sorrow, and shame,
and disappointment to me. I am not sure that I have forgiven it."

"Lady Beith was saying you never would forgive it. She was saying that
you could never forgive any one's faults but your own."

"Lady Beith is very impertinent. And pray what faults has Lady Beith
ever seen in me?"

"It was her general way of speaking, Madame. She has that way."

"Then you might tell Lady Beith's woman, that such general ways of
speaking are extremely vulgar. When her ladyship speaks of the Mistress
of Braelands again, I will ask her to refer to me, particularly. I have
my own virtues as well as my own faults, and my own position, and my
own influence, and I do not go into the generalities of life. I am the
Mistress of Braelands yet, I hope."

"I hope so, Madame. As I was saying, Mrs. Archibald is biddable as a
child; but then again, she is quite capable of taking the rudder into
her own hands, and driving in the teeth of the wind. You can't ever be
sure of fisher blood. It is like the ocean, whiles calm as a sleeping
baby, whiles lashing itself into a very fury. There is both this and
that in the Traills, and Mrs. Archibald is one of them."

"Any way and every way, this marriage is a great sorrow to me."

"I am not disputing that, Madame; but I am sure you remember what the
minister was saying to you at his last visitation--that every sorrow
you got the mastery over was a benefactor."

"The minister is not always orthodox, Allister."

"He is a very good man; every one is saying that."

"No doubt, no doubt, but he deviates."

"Well then, Madame, even if the marriage be as bad as you fancy it, bad
things as well as good ones come to an end, and life, after all, is
like a bit of poetry I picked up somewhere, which says:

  There's nane exempt frae worldly cares
    And few frae some domestic jars
  Whyles _all_ are in, whyles _all_ are out,
    And grief and joy come turn about.

And it's the turn now for the young people to be happy. Cold and bleak
it is here on the Fife coast, but they are among roses and sunshine and
so God bless them, I say, and keep us and every one from cutting short
their turn of happiness. You had your bride time, Madame, and when
Angus McAllister first took me to his cottage in Strathmoyer, I thought
I was on a visit to Paradise."

"Give me my glass of negus, and then I will go to bed. Everybody has
taken to preaching and advising lately, and that is not the kind of
fore-talk that spares after-talk--not it, Allister."

She sunk then into unapproachable silence, and Allister knew that she
needed not try to move her further that night in any direction. Her
eyes were fixed upon the red coals, but she was really thinking of the
roses and sunshine of the South, and picturing to herself her son and
his bride, wandering happily amid the warmth and beauty.

In reality, they were crossing the Braelands's moor at that very moment
The rain was beating against the closed windows of their coach, and the
horses floundering heavily along the boggy road. Sophy's head rested on
her husband's shoulder, but they were not talking, nor had they spoken
for some time. Both indeed were tired and depressed, and Archie at
least was unpleasantly conscious of the wonderment their unexpected
return would cause.

The end of April or the beginning of May had been the time appointed,
and yet here they were, at the threshold of their home, in the middle
of the winter. Sophy's frail health had been Archie's excuse for a
season in the South with her; and she was coming back to Scotland when
the weather was at its very bleakest and coldest. One excuse after
another formed itself in Archie's mind, only to be peremptorily
dismissed. "It is no one's business but our own," he kept assuring
himself, "and I will give neither reason nor apology but my wife's
desire." and yet he knew that reasons and apologies would be asked, and
he was fretting inwardly at their necessity, and wondering vaguely if
women ever did know what they really wanted.

For to go to France and Germany and Italy, had seemed to Sophy the very
essence of every joy in life. Before her marriage, she had sat by
Archie's side hour after hour, listening to his descriptions of foreign
lands, and dreaming of all the delights that were to meet her in them.
She had started on this bridal trip with all her senses set to an
unnatural key of expectation, and she had, of course, suffered
continual disappointments and disillusions. The small frets and
sicknesses of travel, the loneliness of being in places where she could
not speak even to her servants, or go shopping without an attendant,
the continual presence of what was strange--of what wounded her
prejudices and very often her conscience,--and the constant absence
of all that was familiar and approved, were in themselves no slight
cause of unhappiness.

Yet it had been a very gradual disillusion, and one mitigated by many
experiences that had fully justified even Sophy's extravagant
anticipations. The trouble, in the main, was one common to a great
majority of travellers for pleasure--a mind totally unprepared for
the experience.

She grew weary of great cities which had no individual character or
history in her mind; weary of fine hotels in which she was of no
special importance; weary of art which had no meaning for her. Her
child-like enthusiasms, which at first both delighted and embarrassed
her husband, faded gradually away; the present not only lost its charm,
but she began to look backward to the homely airs and scenes of Fife,
and to suffer from a nostalgia that grew worse continually.

However, Archie bore her unreasonable depression with great
consideration. She was but a frail child after all, and she was in a
condition of health demanding the most affectionate patience and
tenderness he could give her. Besides, it was no great sin in his eyes
to be sick with longing for dear old Scotland. He loved his native
land; and his little mountain blue-bell, trembling in every breeze, and
drooping in every hour of heat and sunshine, appealed to the very best
instincts of his nature. And when Sophy began to voice her longing, to
cry a little in his arms, and to say she was wearying for a sight of
the great grey sea round her Fife home, Archie vowed he was homesick as
a man could be, and asked, "why they should stop away from their own
dear land any longer?"

"People will wonder and talk so, Archie They will say unkind
things--they will maybe say we are not happy together."

"Let them talk. What care we? And we are happy together. Do you want to
go back to Scotland tomorrow? today--this very hour?"

"Aye. I do, Archie. And I am that weak and poorly, if I don't go soon,
maybe I will have to wait a long time, and then you know."

"Yes, I know. And that would never, never do. Braelands of Fife cannot
run the risk of having his heir born in a foreign country. Why, it
would be thrown up to the child, lad and man, as long as he lived! So
call your maid, my bonnie Sophy, and set her to packing all your braws
and pretty things, and we will turn our faces to Scotland's hills and
braes tomorrow morning."

Thus it happened that on that bleak night in February, Archie Braelands
and his wife came suddenly to their home amid the stormy winds and
rains of a stormy night. Madame heard the wheels of their carriage as
she sat sipping her negus, and thinking over her conversation with
Allister and her alert soul instantly divined _who_ the late comers
were.

"Give me my silk morning gown and my brocade petticoat, Allister," she
cried, as she rose up hastily and set down her glass. "Mr. Archibald
has come home; his carriage is at the door--haste ye, woman!"

"Will you be heeding your silks to-night, Madame?"

"Get them at once. Quick! Do you think I will meet the bride in a
flannel dressing-gown? No, no! I am not going to lose ground the first
hour."

With nervous haste the richer garments were donned, and just as the
final gold brooch was clasped, Archie knocked at his mother's door. She
opened to him with her own hands, and took him to her heart with an
effusive affection she rarely permitted herself to exhibit.

"I am so glad that you are dressed, Mother," he said. "Sophy must not
miss your welcome, and the poor little woman is just weary to death."
Then he whispered some words to her, which brought a flush of pride and
joy to his own face, but no such answering response to Madame's.

"Indeed," she replied, "I am sorry she is so tired. It seems to me,
that the women of this generation are but weak creatures."

Then she took her son's arm, and went down to the parlour, where
servants were re-kindling the fire, and setting a table with
refreshments for the unexpected guests. Sophy was resting on a sofa
drawn towards the hearth. Archie had thrown his travelling cloak of
black fox over her, and her white, flower-like face, surrounded by the
black fur, had a singularly pathetic beauty. She opened her large blue
eyes as Madame approached and looked at her with wistful entreaty; and
Madame, in spite of all her pre-arrangements of conduct, was unable at
that hour not to answer the appeal for affection she saw in them. She
stooped and kissed the childlike little woman, and Archie watched this
token of reconciliation and promise with eyes wet with happiness.

When supper was served, Madame took her usual place at the head of the
table, and Archie noticed the circumstance, though it did not seem a
proper time to make any remark about it. For Sophy was not able to eat,
and did not rise from her couch; and Madame seemed to fall so properly
into her character of hostess, that it would have been churlish to have
made the slightest dissent. Yet it was a false kindness to both; for in
the morning Madame took the same position, and Archie felt less able
than on the previous night to make any opposition, though he had told
himself continually on his homeward journey that he would not suffer
Sophy to be imposed upon, and would demand for her the utmost title of
her rights as his wife.

In this resolve, however, he had forgot to take into account his
mother's long and absolute influence over him. When she was absent, it
was comparatively easy to relegate her to the position she ought to
occupy; when she was present, he found it impossible to say or do
anything which made her less than Mistress of Braelands. And during the
first few weeks after her return, Sophy helped her mother-in-law
considerably against herself. She was so anxious to please, so anxious
to be loved, so afraid of making trouble for Archie, that she submitted
without protest to one infringement after another on her rights as the
wife of the Master of Braelands. All the same she was dumbly conscious
of the wrong being done to her; and like a child, she nursed her sense
of the injustice until it showed itself in a continual mood of sullen,
silent protest.

After the lapse of a month or more, she became aware that even her ill
health was used as a weapon against her, and she suddenly resolved to
throw off her lassitude, and assert her right to go out and call upon
her friends. But she was petulant and foolish in the carrying out of
the measure. She had made up her mind to visit her aunt on the
following day, and though the weather was bitterly cold and damp, she
adhered to her resolution. Madame, at first politely, finally with
provoking positiveness, told her "she would not permit her to risk her
life, and a life still more precious, for any such folly."

Then Sophy rose, with a sudden excitement of manner, and rang the bell.
When the servant appeared, she ordered the carriage to be ready for her
in half an hour. Madame waited until they were alone, and then said:

"Sophy, go to your room and lie down. You are not fit to go out. I
shall counter-order the carriage in your name."

"You will not," cried the trembling, passionate girl. "You have ordered
and counter-ordered in my name too much. You will, in the future, mind
your own affairs, and leave me to attend to mine."

"When Archie comes back"

"You will tell him all kinds of lies. I know that."

"I do not lie."

"Perhaps not; but you misrepresent things so, that you make it
impossible for Archie to get at the truth. I want to see my aunt. You
have kept me from her, and kept her from me, until I am sick for a
sight of those who _really_ love me. I am going to Aunt Kilgour's this
very morning, whether you like it or not."

"You shall not leave this house until Archie comes back from Largo. I
will not take the responsibility."

"We shall see. _I_ will take the responsibility myself. _I_ am mistress
of Braelands. You will please remember that fact. And I know my rights,
though I have allowed you to take them from me."

"Sophy, listen to me."

"I am going to Aunt Kilgour's."

"Archie will be very angry."

"Not if you will let him judge for himself. Anyway, I don't care. I am
going to see my aunt! You expect Archie to be always thinking of
feelings, and your likes and dislikes. I have just as good a right to
care about my aunt's feelings. She was all the same as mother to me. I
have been a wicked lassie not to have gone to her lang syne."

"Wicked lassie! Lang syne! I wish you would at least try to speak like
a lady."

"I am not a lady. I am just one of God's fisher folk. I want to see my
own kith and kin. I am going to do so."

"You are not--until your husband gives you permission."

"Permission! do you say? I will go on my own permission, Sophy
Braelands's permission."

"It is a shame to take the horses out in such weather--and poor old
Thomas."

"Shame or not, I shall take them out."

"Indeed, no! I cannot permit you to make a fool and a laughing-stock of
yourself." She rang the bell sharply and sent for the coachman When he
appeared, she said:

"Thomas, I think the horses had better not go out this morning. It is
bitterly cold, and there is a storm coming from the northeast. Do you
not think so?"

"It is a bad day, Madame, and like to be worse."

"Then we will not go out."

As Madame uttered the words, Sophy walked rapidly forward. All the
passion of her Viking ancestors was in her face, which had undergone a
sort of transfiguration. Her eyes flashed, her soft curly yellow hair
seemed instinct with a strange life and brilliancy, and she said with
an authority that struck Madame with amazement and fear:

"Thomas, you will have the carriage at the door in fifteen minutes,
exactly," and she drew out her little jewelled watch, and gave him the
time with a smiling, invincible calmness.

Thomas looked from one woman to the other, and said, fretfully, "A man
canna tak' twa contrary orders at the same minute o' time. What will I
do in the case?"

"You will do as I tell you, Thomas," said Madame. "You have done so for
twenty years. Have you come to any scath or wrong by it?"

"If the carriage is not at the door in fifteen minutes, you will leave
Braelands this night, Thomas," said Sophy. "Listen! I give you fifteen
minutes; after that I shall walk into Largo, and you can answer to your
master for it. I am Mistress of Braelands. Don't forget that fact if
you want to keep your place, Thomas."

She turned passionately away with the words, and left the room. In
fifteen minutes she went to the front door in her cloak and hood, and
the carriage was waiting there. "You will drive me to my aunt Kilgour's
shop," she said with an air of reckless pride and defiance. It pleased
her at that hour to humble herself to her low estate. And it pleased
Thomas also that she had done so. His sympathy was with the fisher
girl. He was delighted that she had at last found courage to assert
herself, for Sophy's wrongs had been the staple talk of the
kitchen-table and fireside.

"No born lady I ever saw," he said afterwards to the cook, "could have
held her own better. It will be an even fight between them two now, and
I will bet my shilling on fisherman Traill's girl."

"Madame has more wit, and more _hold out_" answered the cook. "Mrs.
Archibald is good for a spurt, but I'll be bound she cried her eyes red
at Griselda Kilgour's, and was as weak as a baby."

This opinion was a perfectly correct one. Once in her aunt's little
back parlour, Sophy gave full sway to her childlike temper. She told
all her wrongs, and was comforted by her kinswoman's interest and pity,
and strengthened in her resolution to resist Madame's interference with
her life. And then the small black teapot was warmed and filled, and
Sophy begged for a herring and a bit of oatcake; and the two women sat
close to one another, and Miss Kilgour told Sophy all the gossip and
clash of gossip there had been about Christina Binnie and her lover,
and how the marriage had been broken off, no one knowing just why, but
many thinking that since Jamie Logan had got a place on "The Line," he
was set on bettering himself with a girl something above the like of
Christina Binnie.

And as they talked Helen Marr came into the shop for a yard of ribbon,
and said it was the rumour all through Pittendurie, that Andrew Binnie
was all but dead, and folks were laying all the blame upon the Mistress
of Braelands, for that every one knew that Andrew had never held up his
head an hour since her marriage. And though Miss Kilgour did not
encourage this phase of gossip, yet the woman would persist in
describing his sufferings, and the poverty that had come to the Binnies
with the loss of their only bread-winner, and the doctors to pay, and
the medicine folks said they had not the money to buy, and much more of
the same sort, which Sophy heard every word of, knowing also that Helen
Marr must have seen her carriage at the door, and so, knowing of her
presence, had determined that she should hear it.

Certainly if Helen had wished to wound her to the very heart, she
succeeded. When Miss Kilgour got rid of her customer, and came back to
Sophy, she found her with her face in the pillow, sobbing passionately
about the trouble of her old friends. She did not name Andrew, but the
thought of his love and suffering hurt her sorely, and she could not
endure to think of Janet's and Christina's long hardships and sorrow.
For she knew well how much they would blame her, and the thought of
their anger, and of her own apparent ingratitude, made her sick with
shame and grief. And as they talked of this new trouble, and Sophy sent
messages of love and pity to Janet and Christina, the shop-bell rung
violently, and Sophy heard her husband's step, and in another moment he
was at her side, and quite inclined to be very angry with her for
venturing out in such miserable weather.

Then Sophy seized her opportunity, and Miss Kilgour left them alone for
the explanation that was better to be made there than at Braelands. And
for once Archie took his wife's part without reservation. He was not
indeed ill-pleased that she had assumed her proper position, and when
he slipped a crown into Thomas's hand, the man also knew that he had
done wisely. Indeed there was something in the coachman's face and air
which affected Madame unpleasantly, before she noticed that Sophy had
returned in her husband's company, and that they were evidently on the
most affectionate terms.

"I have lost this battle," she said to herself, and she wisely
retreated to her own room, and had a nominal headache, and a very
genuine heartache about the loss.

All day long Sophy was at an unnatural pitch, all day long she exerted
herself, as she had not done for weeks and months, to entertain and
keep her husband at her side, and all day long her pretty wifely
triumph was bright and unbroken. The very servants took a delight in
ministering to it, and Madame was not missed in a single item of the
household routine. But about midnight there was a great and sudden
change. Bells were frantically rung, lights flew about the house, and
there was saddling of horses and riding in hot haste into Largo for any
or all the doctors that could be found.

Then Madame came quietly from her seclusion, and resumed her place as
head of the household, for the little mistress of one day lay in her
chamber quite unconscious of her lost authority. Some twelve hours
later, the hoped-for heir of Braelands was born, and died, and Sophy,
on the very outermost shoal of life, felt the wash and murmur of that
dark river which flows to the Eternal Sea.

It was no time to reproach the poor little wife, and yet Madame did not
scruple to do so. "She had warned Sophy,--she had begged her not to go
out--she had been insulted for endeavouring to prevent what had come to
pass just as she had predicted." And in spite of Archie's love and
pity, her continual regrets did finally influence him. He began to
think he had been badly used, and to agree with Madame in her
assertions that Sophy must be put under some restrictions, and
subjected to some social instruction.

"The idea of the Braelands's carriage standing two hours at Griselda
Kilgour's shop door! All the town talking about it! Every one wondering
what had happened at Braelands, to drive your wife out of doors in such
weather. All sorts of rumours about you and Sophy, and Griselda shaking
her head and sighing and looking unspeakable things, just to keep the
curiosity alive; and the crowds of gossiping women coming and going to
her shop. Many a cap and bonnet has been sold to your name, Archie, no
doubt, and I can tell you my own cheeks are kept burning with the shame
of the whole affair! And then this morning, the first thing she said to
me was, that she wanted to see her cousins Isobel and Christina."

"She asked me also about them, Mother, and really, I think she had
better be humoured in this matter. Our friends are not her friends."

"They ought to be."

"Let us be just. When has she had any opportunity to make them so? She
has seen no one yet,--her health has been so bad--and it did often
look. Mother, as if you encouraged her _not_ to see callers."

"Perhaps I did, Archie. You cannot blame me. Her manners are so crude,
so exigent, so effusive. She is so much pleased, or so indifferent
about people; so glad to see them, or else so careless as to how she
treats them. You have no idea what I suffered when Lady Blair called,
and insisted on meeting your wife. Of course she pretended to fall in
love with her, and kissed, and petted, and flattered Sophy, until the
girl hardly knew what she was doing or saying. And as for 'saying,' she
fell into broad Scotch, as she always does when she is pleased or
excited, and Lady Blair professed herself charmed, and talked broad
Scotch back to her. And I? I sat tingling with shame and annoyance, for
I knew right well what mockeries and laughter Sophy was supplying
Annette Blair with for her future visitors."

"I think you are wrong. Lady Blair is not at all ill-natured. She was
herself a poor minister's daughter, and accustomed to go in and out of
the fishers' cottages. I can imagine that she would really be charmed
with Sophy."

"You can 'imagine' what you like; that will not alter the real state of
the case; and if Sophy is ever to take her position as your wife, she
must be prepared for it. Besides which, it will be a good thing to give
her some new interests in life, for she must drop the old ones. About
that there cannot be two opinions."

"What then do you propose, Mother?"

"I should get proper teachers for her. Her English education has been
frightfully neglected; and she ought to learn music and French."

"She speaks French pretty well. I never saw any one pick up a language
as cleverly as she did the few weeks we were in Paris."

"O, she is clever enough if she wants to be! There is a French woman
teaching at Miss Linley's Seminary. She will perfect her. And I have
heard she also plays well. It would be a good thing to engage her for
Sophy, two or three hours a day. A teacher for grammar, history,
writing, etc., is easily found. I myself will give her lessons in
social etiquette, and in all things pertaining to the dignity and
decorum which your wife ought to exhibit. Depend upon it, Archie, this
routine is absolutely necessary. It will interest and occupy her idle
hours, of which she has far too many; and it will wean her better than
any other thing from her low, uncultivated relations."

"The poor little woman says she wants to be loved; that she is lonely
when I am away; that no one but the servants care for her; that
therefore she wants to see her cousins and kinsfolk."

"She does me a great injustice. I would love her if she would be
reasonable--if she would only trust me. But idle hearts are lonely
hearts, Archie. Tell her you wish her to study, and fit herself for the
position you have raised her to. Surely the desire to please you ought
to be enough. Do you know _who_ this Christina Binnie is that she talks
so continually about?"

"Her fourth or fifth cousin, I believe."

"She is the sister of the man you won Sophy from--the man whom you
struck across the cheek with your whip. Now do you wish her to see
Christina Binnie!"

"Yes, I do! Do you think I am jealous or fearful of my wife? No, by
Heaven! No! Sophy may be unlearned and unfashionable, but she is loyal
and true, and if she wants to see her old lover and his sister, she has
my full permission. As for the fisherman, he behaved very nobly. And I
did not intend to strike him. It was an accident, and I shall apologise
for it the first opportunity I have to do so."

"You are a fool, Archie Braelands."

"I am a husband, who knows his wife's heart and who trusts in it. And
though I think you are quite right in your ideas about Sophy's
education, I do not think you are right in objecting to her seeing her
old friends. Every one in this bound of Fife knows that I married a
fisher-girl. I never intend to be ashamed of the fact. If our social
world will accept her as the representative of my honour and my family,
I shall be obliged to the world. If it will not, I can live without its
approval--having Sophy to love me and live with me. I counted all this
cost before I married; you may be sure of that, Mother."

"You forgot, however, to take my honour and feelings into your
consideration."

"I knew, Mother, that you were well able to protect your own honour and
feelings."

This conversation but indicates the tone of many others which occupied
the hours mother and son passed together during Sophy's convalescence.
And the son, being the weaker character of the two, was insensibly
moved and moulded to all Madame's opinions. Indeed, before Sophy was
well enough to begin the course of study marked out for her, Archie had
become thoroughly convinced that it was his first duty to his wife and
himself to insist upon it.

The weak, loving woman made no objections. Indeed, Archie's evident
enthusiasm sensibly affected her own desires. She listened with
pleasure to the plans for her education, and promised "as soon as she
was able, to do her very best."

And there was a strange pathos in the few words "as soon as I am able,"
which Archie remembered years afterwards, when it was far too late. At
the moment, they touched him but lightly, but _Oh, afterwards!_ Oh,
afterwards! when memory brought back the vision of the small white face
on the white pillow, and the faint golden light of the golden curls
shadowing the large blue eyes that even then had in them that wide gaze
and wistfulness that marks those predestined for sorrow or early death.
Alas! Alas! We see too late, we hear too late, when it is the dead who
open the eyes and the ears of the living!




CHAPTER VIII

A GREAT DELIVERANCE


While these clouds of sorrow were slowly gathering in the splendid
house of Braelands, there was a full tide of grief and anxiety in the
humble cottage of the Binnies. The agony of terror which had changed
Janet Binnie's countenance, and sent Christina flying up the cliff for
help, was well warranted by Andrew's condition. The man was in the most
severe maniacal delirium of brain inflammation, and before the dawning
of the next day, required the united strength of two of his mates to
control him. To leave her mother and brother in this extremity would
have been a cruelty beyond the contemplation of Christina Binnie. Its
possibility never entered her mind. All her anger and sense of wrong
vanished before the pitiful sight of the strong man in the throes of
his mental despair and physical agony. She could not quite ignore her
waiting lover, even in such an hour; but she was not a ready writer, so
her words were few and to the point:--

DEAR JAMIE--Andrew is ill and like to die, and my place, dear

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