Christine - Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr (the kiss of deception read online TXT) 📗

heroine married Sandy Gilhaize, and behaved very well ever afterward.

The Domine came in and found her flushed and excited over the wedding, and the parting, and he took the book away with him, and told her he would look after its sale, and she was to worry no more about it. "Try and forget it exists, Christine, then neither your wishing nor your fearing will interfere with the fortune your good angel intends for it."

"I am going to gie the house a good clean, frae the roof to the doorstep," she answered, "and when I hae that business on hand, it is all I can think about."

"Is not cleaning the house again a work of supererogation?"

"I dinna ken what kind o' wark that may be, Sir, but Mither always cleaned the house weel, before the herring came. She'll be expecting me to do the same thing."

So the Domine took away the manuscript, and Christine cleaned her house with even extra care, and one night a week afterwards, she sat down to her cup of tea, telling herself that there wasna a speck o' dust from the roof to the doorstane. "Even the knives and forks shine like siller," she said, "and the bath-brick board wouldna file the cleanest duster." She was personally in the same spotless condition, and the little scone, and bit of baked fish, and the cup of tea on the snow white tablecloth, only emphasized this sense of absolute purity.

As she was drinking her tea, Norman lifted the latch and entered, and she greeted him joyfully. "Come awa' and welcome," she cried. "I was just longing to see you. Bring a cup and saucer off the rack, laddie, and sit down, and tell me what's going on in the village."

"Weel, the great news is the nearness o' the herrin'. From a' accounts we may hae them in our bay in a week."

"I am glad o' the news."

"I dinna think you would be carin'."

"Why shouldn't I care? I am longing to mak' some money. I intend to tak' up my mither's kippering."

"I'm glad o' that. Why should ye let it slip through your fingers? I heard tell that Nancy Baird was thinking o' taking Mither's place."

"She'll do naething o' that kind. Mither took pains to fit me for that wark, and I am going to do it wi' all my might. Norman, what can you do to mak' it easy for me?"

"That is what I came here to talk to you about. I'll tell Willie he is your gillie, as it were, for the fishing. He will carry the fish to the shed for you, and dinna forget Mither's cubby there is yours! Feyther paid for the space, and put up all the fixtures. If they werna named in the will, and there is any question of my right in the matter, say, I hae given it to you."

"But the kippering shed and fixtures were named and given to Mither and mysel', and----"

"They are yours. Let no one put you oot o' your right. Willie will bring the feesh to you--the finest I hae in my nets--and when they are kippered, he'll go to the town wi' you, and carry your basket."

"That is all I need, Norman, and I am vera gratefu' for your kindness."

"And I'll be walking through the shed, to see that a' is right. And if anything is beyont you, sister, you'll send Willie for me."

Christine could not speak, but she put her hand in his, and the look on her lovely face filled his eyes with tears. "You are wonderfu' like Mither this afternoon, Christine," he said softly. And both were silent a little while. When he spoke next, it was of Neil--"Hae ye had a word frae the lad yet?" he asked.

"Not one, nor from the lass he married. I don't know what to think."

"Weel, it is as easy to think good, as evil. If we dinna thing wrang, we won't do wrang. Thinking no evil! That is what the Good Book advises. The puir lad was spoiled i' the making. If he comes back to any o' us, he will come back to you, Christine. There was the son, wha left his hame, in the gospels--ye ken how he was treated?"

"Whenever Neil comes hame, Norman, he will hae a loving welcome from Christine."

"The puir lad made a mistake wi' his marriage. That is the warst of a' mistakes. No man wins o'er it. It is the bitter drop in a' he eats and drinks, it is the pebble in his shoe, whether he warks or plays. Neil willna come hame till sorrow drives him here--then?"

"I'll do all that love can do, Norman."

"And call on me, if you think it needfu'."

The very next day Christine went to see her mother's customers. The idea of Nancy Baird's stepping into her mother's shoes was intolerable. "I'll not thole a thing like that! It settles the question to me! If I didna need the money, I would kipper the herrin', but I'm needing the money, and the herrin' are my lawfu' venture." So to the town she went, and even far exceeded her usual orders. She was much elated by her success, and immediately began to prepare her mother's place for the work before her. It caused much talk in the village, but it prevented the Baird woman's taking unauthorized possession of Christine's place in the curing-shed.

Then while she was waiting and watching for the fish, she got a letter from Cluny. He was at home again. He was coming to Culraine on Saturday. He would be there by noon, and he would remain in Culraine until Monday night. She was full of joy, and instantly began to prepare for her visitor. It was Friday morning, and she had but little time, but that little was enough if things went with her. First she went to the village and asked Judith to come and stay with her, until the following Tuesday, and the old woman was delighted to do so. "We will hae Cluny to oursel's then," she said, "and I'll tak' the house wark off your hands, Christine, and you and Cluny can hae the time for your ain talk and planning."

"And man nor woman can say nae ill word anent Cluny visiting me, if you are here."

"Lat them say their pleasure. They'll say naething oot o' the way, while I am here. They ken better."

"Why not?"

"Because I hae promised ane and all o' them to call a church session the first ill word I hear. I will hae their names read out frae the pulpit--christened name and surname--and then they will be oot o' communion wi' the kirk, till they confess their sin, standing up in the congregation, and asking to be forgiven. Will ye think o' Sally Johnson, and Kitty Brawn, and a' that crowd o' sinful women making such a spectacle o' themsel's! Gar! It makes me laugh." And she laughed, as women of the natural order do laugh, and such laughing is very contagious, and Christine laughed also, as she gurgled out, "You never would do a thing like that, Judith?"

"Wouldn't I? Lat them try me."

"The Domine wouldn't do it."

"He couldna help himsel'. It is in the 'Ordering o' the Kirk.' He wad be forced to call the session, and I wouldn't won'ner if he rayther liked the jarring occasion. He dislikes insulting women, and why shouldn't he like to gie them a galling withstanding. It wad be vera desirable i' my opinion."

Cluny had said, in his letter, that his next voyage would be the last before their marriage, and that he would have to sweeten the next half year with the memories of his coming visit. So Christine killed her young, plump, spring chickens, and saved all her eggs, and provided every good thing she could for her expected lover.

The next three days were days taken out of this work-a-day world, and planted in Paradise. Everything appeared to unite to make them so. Judith looked after the house, the lovers wandered in the hill side garden. They were lovely days, green, shot with gold, and the whole sweet place was a caress of scent. The roses in Margot's garden were in their first spring beauty, and the soul of a white jasmine vine, that surrounded the spot, breathed of heaven. The larkspurs stood around like watchful grenadiers. Lilies and pansies were at their feet, and the laburnum hung its golden droops above them. All the day long, the sea was blue and calm, and the waves seemed to roll themselves asleep upon the shore. At night, there was a full moon above the water, and in its light the projecting rigging of some ships lying on it looked like spider webs on the gray firmament. The sun, and the moon, and the sea were all new, and the whole world was their own.

Talk of their marriage no longer made trouble, for Christine now sweetly echoed his hopes and his dreams. She had said "on the fifteenth of next April, or there-abouts," and Cluny seized and clung to the positive date. "Let it be the fifteenth," he decided. "I cannot bear 'there-abouts,' or any other uncertainty."

"The fifteenth might fall on a Sunday."

"Then let it be Sunday. There can be no better day;" and Christine smiled and lifted her beautiful face, and he wanted to give her a thousand kisses. For nearly three days all the ancient ecstasies of love and youth were theirs. I need say no more. The morning redness of life and love has once tinged us all.

Judith went home the following day. Nothing less than the joys and sorrows and contentions of the whole village, were sufficient for her troubled and troubling spirit. Judith had everyone's affairs to look after, but she gave the supremacy of her attention to Cluny and Christine. Christine, she said, was a by-ordinary girl. She had written a poem, and got gude siller for it, and there wasna anither lass in Culraine, no, nor i' the hale o' Scotland, could do the same thing.

Christine's first employment was to put her house in perfect order, then she took out her old fisher dresses, and selected one for the work before her. She hoped that her effort to take her mother's place in the kippering shed would put a stop to the fisherwives' opinion that she was "setting hersel' up aboon them a'." She longed for their good will, and she had no desire whatever to "tak' her mither's outstanding place," a fear of which intention some of the older women professed.

Her first visitor was her brother Norman. He put a stop at once to all her good and kind intentions. "You mustna go near the kippering," he said. "I hae heard what must put a stop to that intent. The herrin' are near by, and may be here tonight. If so be, I will send my lad, Willie, to the foot o' the hill wi' your feesh, by five o'clock in the morning. He will carry your basket easy, and do your bidding in a' things. Gae yer ways to the town, and cry your feesh, and you'll hae the siller in your hand when you come hame."

"Why can I not kipper my fish, Norman?"

"It isna worth while tellin' ye. God alone understands quarrelsome women, but if you go to the kippering-shed, there will be trouble--and trouble for me, Christine--for Jessy is in wi' them."

"I will