The solitude of the sea, and of the lonely road, was good for Christine. She was not weeping, but she had a bitter aching sense of something lost. She thought of her love lying dead outside her heart’s shut door, and she could not help pitying both love and herself. “He was like sunshine on my life,” she sighed. “It is dark night now. All is over. Good-by forever, Angus! Oh, Love, Love!” she cried aloud to the sea. “Oh, you dear old troubler o’ the warld! I shall never feel young again. Weel, weel, Christine, I’ll not hae ye going to meet trouble, it isna worth the compliment. Angus may forget me, 92 and find some ither lass to love—weel, then, if it be so, let it be so. I’ll find the right kind o’ strength for every hour o’ need, and the outcome is sure to be right. God is love. Surely that is a’ I need. I’ll just leave my heartache here, the sea can carry it awa’, and the winds blow it far off”—and she began forthwith a tender little song, that died down every few bars, but was always lifted again, until it swelled out clear and strong, as she came in sight of the small, white manse, standing bravely near the edge of a cliff rising sheerly seven hundred feet above the ocean. The little old, old kirk, with its lonely acres full of sailors’ graves, was close to it, and Christine saw that the door stood wide open, though it was yet early morning.
“It’ll be a wedding, a stranger wedding,” she thought. “Hame folk wouldna be sae thoughtless, as to get wed in the morning—na, na, it will be some stranger.”
These speculations were interrupted by the Domine’s calling her, and as soon as she heard his voice, she saw him standing at the open door. “Christine!” he cried. “Come in! Come in! I want you, lassie, very much. I was just wishing for you.”
“I am glad that I answered your wish, Sir. I would aye like to do that, if it be His will.”
“Come straight to my study, dear. You are a very godsend this morning.”
He went hurriedly into the house, and turned towards 93 his study, and Christine followed him. And before she crossed the threshold of the room, she saw Angus and his Uncle Ballister, sitting at a table on which there were books and papers.
Angus rose to meet her at once. He did it as an involuntary act. He did not take a moment’s counsel or consideration, but sprang to his feet with the joyful cry of a delighted boy. And Christine’s face reflected the cry in a wonderful, wonderful smile. Then Angus was at her side, he clasped her hands, he called her by her name in a tone of love and music, he drew her closer to his side. And the elder man smiled and looked at the Domine, who remembered then the little ceremony he had forgotten.
So he took Christine by the hand, and led her to the stranger, and in that moment a great change came into the countenance and manner of the girl, while a peculiar light of satisfaction—almost of amusement—gleamed in her splendid eyes.
“Colonel Ballister,” said the Domine, “I present to you Miss Christine Ruleson, the friend of your nephew, the beloved of the whole village of Culraine.”
“I am happy to make Miss Ruleson’s acquaintance,” he replied and Christine said,