A Daughter of Fife. Amelia E. Barr
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boat in silence; then she turned and began to walk rapidly toward the nearest cluster of cottages. The sea fog was rolling in thick, with the tide, and the air was cold and keen. A voice called her through it, and she answered the long-drawn “Maggie” with three cheerful words, “I’m coming, Davie.” Very soon Davie loomed through the fog, and throwing a plaid about her, said, “What for did you go near the boat, Maggie? When you ken where ill luck is, you should keep far from it.”
“A better looking or a bonnier boat I ne’er saw, Davie.”
“It’s wi’ boats, as it is wi’ men and women; some for destruction, some for salvation. The Powers above hae the ordering o’ it, and it’s a’ right, Maggie.”
“That’s what folks say. I’m dooting it mysel’. It’s our ain fault some way. Noo there would be a false plumb in yonder boat, though we didna ken it.”
“Weel, weel, she failed in what was expected o’ her, and she’s got her deserts. We must tak’ care o’ our ain job. But I hae news for you, and if you’ll mak’ a cup o’ tea, and toast a Finnin haddie, we’ll talk it o’er.”
The Promoter cottage was in a bend of the hills, but so near the sea that the full tide broke almost at its door, and then drew the tinkling pebbles down the beach after it. It was a low stone dwelling, white-washed, and heather-roofed, and containing only three rooms. David and Maggie entered the principal one together. Its deal furniture was spotless, its floor cleanly sanded, and a bright turf fire was burning on the brick hearth. Some oars and creels were hung against the wall, and on a pile of nets in the warmest corner, a little laddie belonging to a neighbor’s household was fast asleep.
Maggie quickly threw on more turf, and drew the crane above the fire, and hung the kettle upon it. Then with a light and active step she set about toasting the oat cake and the haddie, and making the tea, and setting the little round table. But her heart was heavy enough. Scarcely a week before her father and three eldest brothers had gone out to the fishing, and perished in a sudden storm; and the house place, so lately busy and noisy with the stir of nearly half-a-dozen menfolk, was now strangely still and lonely.
Maggie was a year older than her brother David, but she never thought of assuming any authority over him. In the first place, he had the privilege of sex; in the next, David Promoter was generally allowed to be “extr’onar’ wise-like and unwardly in a’ his ways.” In fact there had been an intention of breaking through the family traditions and sending him to the University of Aberdeen. Latterly old Promoter had smoked his pipe very often to the ambitious hope of a minister in his family. David’s brothers and sister had also learned to look upon the lad as destined by Providence to bring holy honors upon the household. No thought of jealousy had marred their intended self-denial in their younger brother’s behalf. Their stern Calvinism taught them that Jacob’s and Jesse’s families were not likely to be the only ones in which the younger sons should be chosen for vessels of honor; and Will Promoter, the eldest of the brothers, spoke for all, when he said, “Send Davie to Aberdeen, fayther; gladly we will a’ of us help wi’ the fees; and may be we shall live to see a great minister come oot o’ the fishing boats.”
But though the intended sacrifice had been a sincerely pure and unselfish one, it had nevertheless been refused. Why it had been refused, was the question filling David’s heart with doubt and despair, as he sat with his head in his hands, gazing into the fire that March afternoon. Maggie was watching him, though he did not perceive it, and by an almost unconscious mental act was comparing him with his dead brothers. They had been simply strong fair fishers, with that open air look men get who continually set their faces to the winds and waves. David was different altogether. He was exceedingly tall, and until years filled in his huge framework of bone and muscle, would very likely be called “gawky.” But he had the face of a mediaeval ecclesiastic; spare, and sallow, and pointed at the chin. His hair, black and exceeding fine, hung naturally in long, straggling masses; his mouth was straight and perhaps a little cruel; his black, deep set eyes had the glow in them of a passionate and mystical soul. Such a man, if he had not been reared in the straitest sect of Calvinism, would have adopted it—for it was his soul’s native air.
That he should go to the university and become a minister seemed to David as proper as that an apple tree should bear an apple. As soon as it was suggested, he felt himself in the moderator’s chair of the general assembly. “Why had such generous and holy hopes been destroyed?” Maggie knew the drift of his thoughts, and she hastened her preparations for tea; for though it is a humiliating thing to admit, the most sacred of our griefs are not independent of mere physical comforts. David’s and Maggie’s sorrow was a deep and poignant one, but the refreshing tea and cake and fish were at least the vehicle of consolation. As they ate they talked to one another, and David’s brooding despair was for the hour dissipated.
During the days of alternating hope and disappointment following the storm in which the Promoters perished, they had not permitted themselves to think, much less to speak of a future which did not include those who might yet return. But hope was over. When Promoter’s mates beached his boat, both David and Maggie understood the rite to be a funeral one. It was not customary for women to go to funerals, but Maggie, standing afar off, amid the gray thick fog, had watched the men drag the unfortunate craft “where a boat ought never to be;” and when they had gone away, had stood by the lonely degraded thing, and felt as sad and hopeless, as if it had been the stone at a grave’s mouth.
All the past was past; they had to begin a life set to new methods and motives: “and the sooner the better,” thought Maggie, “if fayther were here, he wad say that.”
“Davie?”
“Weel?”
“Is the tea gude? And the fish, and the cake?”
“Ay, they’re gude. I didna think I was sae hungry. I’m maist ‘shamed to enjoy them sae hearty.”
“Life’s wark wants life’s food; and we canna sit wi’ idle hands anither seven days. You were saying you had news, what will it be?”
“Ay, I had forgotten. Willie Johnson’s Willie has brought back wi’ him a young man. He wants a quiet room to himsel’, and there’s naebody in Pittenloch can gie him ane, if it be na us, or the Widow Thompson. He’s offered a crown a week for ane.”
“You should hae said instanter we’d be thankfu’. My certie! A crown a week, that’s a fair godsend, Davie.”
“The widow has the first right to the godsend; if she canna tak’ it, she’ll send it our way, Maggie.”
“Davie, there is #50 in Largo Bank.”
“I ken that.”
“You’ll tak’ it. It will gie you a’ the start you need at Aberdeen. Fayther said #30 a year wad do, wi’ a carefu’ hand to guide it. You’ll be Helping yoursel’ wi’ a bit teaching afore it is a’ gane.”
“I’ll no touch it. What are you talking aboot? Oor fayther saved it for his auld age and his burying.”
“And he’ll ne’er be auld now, Davie! and God has found him a grave that only He kens o’! I can spin, and weave, and sew, and the lasses roun’ aboot have keepit my needle aye busy. Why not? I served my time in Largo, and I can cut a skirt or josey, and mak’ a kirk gown, better than any one nearer.”
“You’ll be wanting to marry ere lang, Maggie. Angus Raith thinks much o’ you; and #50 wad buy his share in Cupar’s boat. I sall hae the cottage, and the #50 is to be for your wedding and plenishing.”
“This is na a time to talk o’ wedding, Davie; and there is na any promise made to Angus Raith! Go into Kinkell the morn and speak wi’ the minister; he is a wise man, and we will baith o’ us do the thing he says.”
After this, the conversation drifted hither and thither, until the meal Was finished. Then while Maggie tidied up the room, David opened the door And stood thoughtfully within its shadow. “There’s a voice in the sea to-night,” he said mournfully, “and when