“Few things are beyond thy say-so.” Then she lifted her work-bag and left the room.
During this conversation Conall Ragnor had been slowly making his way home, after leaving his warehouse when the work of the day was done. Generally he liked his walk through the town to his homestead, which was just outside the town limits. It was often pleasant and flattering. The women came to their doors to watch him, or to speak to him, and their admiration and friendliness was welcome. For many years he had been used to it, but he had not in the least outgrown the thrill of satisfaction it gave him. And often he wondered if his wife noticed the good opinion that the ladies of Kirkwall had for her husband.
“Of course she does,” he commented, “but a great wonder it would be if my Rahal should speak of it. In that hour she would be out of the commodity of pride, or she would have forgotten herself entirely.”
This day he had received many good-natured greetings––Jenny Torrie had told him that the 17 Sea Gull was just coming into harbour, and so heavy with cargo that the sea was worrying at her gunwale; then Mary Inkster––from the other side of the street––added, “Both hands––seen and unseen––are full, Captain, I’ll warrant that!”
“Don’t thee warrant beyond thy knowledge, Mary,” answered Ragnor, with a laugh. “The Sea Gull may have hands; she has no tongue.”
“All that touches the Sea Gull is a thing by itself,” cried pretty Astar Graff, whose husband was one of the Sea Gull’s crew.
“So, then, Astar, she takes her own at point and edge. That is her way, and her right,” replied Ragnor.
Thus up the narrow street, from one side or the other, Conall Ragnor was greeted. Good wishes and good advice, with now and then a careful innuendo, were freely given and cheerfully taken; and certainly the recipient of so much friendly notice was well pleased with its freedom and good will. He came into his own house with the smiling amiability of a man who has had all the wrinkles of the day’s business smoothed and soothed out of him.
Looking round the room, he was rather glad his wife was not there. She was generally cool about 18 such attentions, and secretly offended by their familiarity. For she was not only a reader and a thinker, she was also a great observer, and she had seen and considered the slow but sure coming of that spirit of progress, which would break up their isolation and, with it, the social privileges of her class. However, she kept all her fears on this subject in her heart. Not even to Thora would she talk of them lest she might be an inciter of thoughts that would raise up a class who would degrade her own: “Few people can be trusted with a dangerous thought, and who can tell where spoken words go to.” And this idea, she knit, or stitched, into every garment her fingers fashioned.
So, then, it was quite in keeping with her character to pass by Conall’s little social enthusiasms with a chilling indifference, and if any wonder or complaint was made of this attitude, to reply: