A Knight of the Nets

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.”