Christine by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (top 5 ebook reader txt) 📕

brought to bear upon the grandfather's heart, that he was eager for the morning to come, and before it was yet light he was away to the town, to catch the earliest train to Edinburgh, from which place he could get quick transit to Glasgow.

"Now, Mither, we hae done a' we can, at the present, for Allan's little lad," said Christine. "Do you think feyther will write to us?"

"I'm sure he will not. He wad rayther do a hard day's work than write a letter. What are you going to do wi' your day, dearie?"

"I am going to write to Neil."

"Do. You might remind him that his feyther and mither are yet living in Culraine."

"That news isna worth while. If he wants to write, he'll write. If he doesna want to write, we arena begging letters. I'm thinking mair o' little James than I am o' Neil. You dinna like his mither, I'm thinking?"

"You're thinking right. Allan picked her up in some unkent place, and when a man lives between sailing and docking, he hasna time to ken what he's doing. Forbye, Christine, new relations dinna get into their place easy. They mind me o' that new dress my sister sent me frae Liverpool. It wanted a lot o' taking-in, and o' letting-out. It's just that way wi' new relations. Allan's wife required plentiful taking-in, and the mair letting-out there was, the mair unfittable she became." Then Margot rubbed the end of her nose with an air of scorn, and said decidedly, "She wasna a comprehensible woman. I couldna be fashed wi' her. It isna the bringing o' bairns to the birth, that hurts the heart and spoils the life o' a mither, it's the way lads and lasses marry themsel's that mak's her wish she had neither lad nor lass to her name."

"Mither, that isna like you."

"Allan was just twenty-three when he married the woman, without word or wittens to any o' us. It was a bad day's wark, and he hes never been able to mend it. For there's nae takin'-in or lettin'-out wi' his wife. She is sure she is parfect, and what will you do, what can you do, wi' a parfect woman? I hope and pray that I'll never fall into that state; parfection isna suitable for this warld."

"It ought to be a grand virtue, Mither."

"It's the warst o' all the vices. We hae three or four specimens o' it in the village o' Culraine, and they are the maist unenlightened people we hae to tak' care o'. But when parfection is born o' ignorance, it is unconquerable. The Domine said sae, and that only God could manage a parfect man or woman."

"When little James comes, wouldn't it be well to hae the Domine look him over? He can tell us what's the matter wi' the laddie, and what we ought to do for him."

"That is a sensible observe, Christine. There will be nae harm in doing what it calls for."

"Now I'll awa', and write to Neil. Hae ye ony special message for him, Mither?"

"You might say I would like to ken something anent thae Raths. They arena Fifemen, nor Shetlanders, Highland Scots, nor Lowland Scots; and I'm thinking they may be Irish, and if sae, I'm hopin' they hae the true faith."

"Mither dear, I wouldna fash wi' the Raths. They are simply naething to us, and if we set Neil on 'praising and proving,' he'll write pages anent them."

"Sae he will. You might name the ninety pound he's owing you."

"It wouldna be advisable. Neil will pay when it's fully convenient to himsel'. I'm not expecting a farthing until it is sae."

"I can think o' nae ither thing. It seems vera superfluous to tell Neil to be good, and to do good. He has the gift o' admiring himsel'. Tell him he can be thankful, for it isna every man that has the same capability."

"I'll read you my letter, Mither, when I hae written it."

"You'd better not. You'll say lots I wouldna say, and naething I would say, and the amends and contradictions would require another letter o' explanations. I'm going to look through my ain lads' outgrown breeks and jackets. I'll warrant wee James will come to us next door to naked."

"I didna know that you had saved the lads' auld claes."

"Did you think I wad throw them awa'? All our lads grew quick, they ne'er wore out a suit, and I put their wee breeks and coaties awa'. I thought they might come in for their ain bairns, and lo and behold! Allan's little lad is, like as not, to come into his feyther's Sunday raiment."

"Did you save their shirts and such like?"

"Why wouldn't I? But vera few linen things are left. They were too easy to wear and tear, to be long-lived, but I fancy I can find a sleeping gown for the bairn, and maybe a shirt or twa. But stockings are beyond mention. They got them into unmendable holes, and left them in the boats, or the fish sheds, and I fairly wore my knitting needles awa' knitting for lads wha wouldna use their feet ony way but skin-bare."

So the grandmother went to find what clothes she could for a little lad of eight years old, and Christine sat down to answer Neil's last letter. To herself she called it an "overflowing screed." Indeed it was full of the great Reginald Rath, his fine family, his comfortable wealth, his sister, Roberta, and her highly respectable house in the Monteith Row o'erby the Green of Glasgow City. Christine told him in reply that she was glad he had found a friend so conformable to all his wishes. She asked him if he had heard lately from Angus Ballister, and casually mentioned that the Domine had received ten days ago a letter from the Colonel about the school building, and that Angus had sent her some bonnie pictures of the city of Rome. She also informed him that his nephew was coming to Culraine, and that she herself was going to take the charge of him, and so might not have time to write as often as she had done.

In the afternoon Faith came from the village to help with the nets a-mending, and she brought the village gossip with her, and among the news of all kinds, the date of her own marriage. She was going to wed the Largo man on Christmas Day, and she had forgotten her loneliness and melancholy, and laughed and joked pleasantly, as she went over her plans with Christine. Margot watched her, and listened to her with great interest, and when at sunset the lassie went down the hill, she said to Christine: "Wonders never cease. Faith Balcarry was moping melancholy, she is now as merry as a cricket. She was sick and going to die, she's now well and going to marry. She had nane to love her, and nane she loved. Her whole talk now is o' the Largo man, and the wonderfu' love he has for her, and the untelling love she has for him. Weel! Weel! I hae learned ane thing this afternoon."

"What hae you learned, Mither?"

"I hae learned, that when a lass is dying wi' a sair affliction, that there is parfect salvation in a lad."

It was the evening of the third day ere James Ruleson returned home. He had met no difficulties with Mrs. Allan Ruleson that were not easily removed by the gift of a sovereign. And he found the little lad quietly but anxiously waiting for him. "My feyther whispered to me that you would come," he said softly, as he snuggled into James' capacious breast. "I was watching for you, I thought I could hear your footsteps, after twelve o'clock today they were coming nearer, and nearer--when you chappit at the door, I knew it was you--Grandfeyther!" And James held the child tighter and closer in his arms, and softly stroked the white, thin face that was pressed against his heart.

"I'm going to tak' you hame to your grandmither, and your aunt Christine," James whispered to the boy. "You are going to get well and strong, and big, and learn how to read and write and play, yoursel', like ither bairns."

"How soon? How soon?"

"Tomorrow."

"I thought God didna know about me. Such long, long days and nights."

"You puir little lad! God knew all the time. It is o'er by now."

"Will it come again?"

"Never! Never again!"

The next day they left Glasgow about the noon hour. The child had no clothing but an old suit of his elder brother, and it was cold winter weather. But James made no remark, until he had the boy in the train for Edinburgh. Then he comforted him with all the kind words he could say, and after a good supper, they both went early to bed in a small Edinburgh hostelry.

In the morning, soon after nine o'clock, James took his grandson to a ready-made tailor's shop, and there he clothed him from head to feet in a blue cloth suit. From the little white shirt to the little blue cloth cap on his long fair hair, everything was fit and good, and the child looked as if he had been touched by a miracle. He was now a beautiful boy, spiritually frail and fair, almost angelic. Ruleson looked at him, then he looked at the pile of ragged clothes that had fallen from his little shrunken form, and he kicked them with his big feet to the other end of the shop. A thick, warm overcoat, and new shoes and stockings, were added to the outfit, and then they were ready for their home train.

As they walked slowly down Prina's Street, they met a regiment of Highland soldiers, accompanied by a fine military band. The boy was enthralled, he could not speak his delight, but he looked into his grandfather's face with eyes painfully eloquent. It was evident that he had life to learn, not gradually, as the usual infant learns it; but that its good and evil would assail him through all his senses in their full force. And Ruleson understood, partially, how abnormally large and important very trivial events might appear to him.

Soon after four o'clock they arrived at their destination, and found a train omnibus about to go their way. Ruleson lifted his grandson into it, and the vehicle set them down at the foot of his own hill; then he carried the boy up to the cottage in his arms. The door was closed, but there was the shining of fire and candlelight through the windows. Yet their arrival was unnoticed, until Ruleson entered and stood the little child in the middle of the room. With a cry of welcome Margot and Christine rose. Ruleson pointed to the child standing in their midst. The next moment Christine was removing his coat and cap, and when Margot turned to him, his beauty and the pathos of his thin, white face went straight to her heart. She took him in her arms and said, "Bonnie wee laddie, do ye ken that I am your grandmither?"

"Ay, grandmither," he answered, "I ken. And I hae a grandfeyther too. I am vera happy. Dinna send me awa', for ony sake."

Then the women set him in a big chair, and admired and loved him from head to feet--his fair hair, his wonderful eyes, his little hands so white and thin--his wee feet in their neat, well-fitting shoes--his dress so good