BOB CHRISTIE AND FENELLA.

Otago Witness, Issue 3672, 29 July 1924, Page 74

808 CHRISTIE AND FENELLA.

By

David Lyall,

Author of “The Awakening of Colin Macphail,” “Mr Britten’s Ward,” “Down and Out,” etc., etc. (Copyright.—Fob the Witness.) Bob Christie was one of the roaring, boring kind of men, who are never at peace themselves nor yet allow peace in others. For argument and contradiction he was not to be beaten in the whole strath of Baaven. He came of an argumentative stock, good sound folks, hard working, determined, not given very much to speech. But Bob had a great fund of speech. He never spared or missed any chance of ramming his arguments down the throats of his compeers. He farmed three hundred acres of the best land in Glen Baaven, and had scores of sheep fattening on the hillsides, getting ready for market, to bring more grist to Mid Gillane. His father had so successfully farmed the place before him that he had been able to hand it over to Bob, and retire to the little town of Dunleece, where ha renewed his youth, after years of hard toil, and became mighty at the game of bowls. Whoever invented bowls deserves the thanks of retired gentlemen and their womenfolk, who might otherwise find time hang too heavily on their hands. Bowls have kept the peace in many a household by preventing the fret which is born of idleness and boredom and lack of interest in life. Old Adam Christie, though second to none in admiration for his son’s sound quality, was by no means blind to his faults. In fact, it was because he was so conscious of them that he thought it better that each should have a separate domicile. They had not lived in complete peace for several years, possibly because they were too much alike in temperament. Time had mellowed the older man, and the wife and mother, a small, insignificantlooking creature, who had great wisdom and insight, treated them both as bairns. Old Christie would have stood aghast had he been told that he had done not what seemed good in his own sight all his days, but merely what his wife allowed. Possibly, if Bob could get such a wife, all might yet be well at Mid Gillane. Quite often his mother pondered on the problem of Bob's domestic future, choosing this one and that, in her mind, as a likely or suitable wife. But it was all in vain. “I’m not in a hurry, mother,” he said one day. “I keep in front of me that terrible thought that marriage is for keeps, and you can’t get away. Til marry, maybe, when I think lit. If not, well, there are better men for the job on the market. I’m looking for one like you,” he sometimes added, with a little twinkle in his eye, which gave an almost irresistible charm to his good-looking face. “If ye wait too long, Bob, you'll find it more difficult to settle down. You’ll get more thrawn-like, and will stand nothing. Mind you, the modern lasses are not like what they were in my young day. They winna do as they are hid.” “My wife will,” said Bob grimly. “When I get her she’ll be a model of all the virtues. That’s as it should be. I’ve no use for the modern cutties. I’ll let them alone.” The braggart, however, rode to a fall, as quite a lot of braggarts do. There came to the Strath of Baaven one summer —the summer in which Bob Christie was thirty-five—a hit lass from the south country, with an angel’s face, little hands and feet, and a will of iron. She was a school teacher in England somewhere, and came to visit a relative who, like old Christie, had come to spend the evening of his days in the pretty little town. The two old men had met and become fast friends on the bowling green, and were quite frequent visitors at one another’s houses. It was on a Sunday when the Gillespies were taking tea at Fairknowe Cottage, the residence of old Christie, that Bob. dropping in as he often did on a Sunday, met I enella Mouat. Her name was arresting, to begin with. It almost sounded foreign in northern ears. She had a slightly foreign touch about her looks, too. Pier hair and eyes were black as the raven’s wing. She had a clear, though rather pale, face, and her crisp locks had an enchanting habit of straying in little ringlets about her .brows and ears. Whether it was the straying locks or the flashing, yet demure, eyes, or the daintiness of her apparel, will never be known, but in her presence, that very first afternoon, Bob Christie surrendered to a force stronger than aught else in the world, before which the stem, dour wills of men crumble to atoms at their feet. He had eyes for her and for none other. She did not speak much, nor did he. And that was contrary to his custom. He had arrived that afternoon particularly full of some rather smart dealing in the market, which some more scrupulous judges had not failed to characterise as sharp practice. He saw only Fenella’s face and forgot aught else. She paid no heed at all to him, however, when he summoned up courage to address her.

She simply looked through, rather than at him, and slightly shook her head. The Gillespies had spoken a lot about Bob Christie, jun., labelling and judging him with the freedom of those who knew their theme well. He interested her, oh, yes, because he was so entirely different from the man she had expected to meet. He was so well dressed, so quiet, so modest in ids demeanour. liven while treating him to a double dose of the fine indifference which piques a man more than anything, she was concluding that the Gillespies had not been fair to him. After tea a stroll through the woods, which were a feature of Dunleece scenery, was suggested. It came to pass that the older ones naturally fell into their own little group, and Bob and t'*enella had a chance of speaking alone. Christie was determined to make the best of this opportunity, and began, of course, by asking whether she liked Scotland. “ Oh, I like Scotland well enough,” she answered demiurely, “ but 1 don’t care for the Scottish people.” ‘‘ Oh,” said Bob, rather crestfallen, 11 what’s your objection to them? ” Had it been anybody but Fenella throwing down such a challenge how he would have buckled on his armour for the fray ! But being so anxious to stand well with her, he would even have conceded the need for improvement and Eet himself to attempt it. She turned her pretty head and flashed an adorable glance at him. “ Oh, if I were to start on that track we should need to walk for hours and hours, and then we’d never get to the end.” “ Oh,” said Bob again, in his most crestfallen voice, “ I thought the Scots were a pretty good sort. Surely they’ve got some qualities? ” “ Millions of qualities—cheek, perseverance, eoming-on-ness, never know when they’re beaten, and all that. But you know what Carlyle said about them I ‘‘No! What did he say?” “ That they were gey ill to live wi’.” She did not pronounce the “ gey ” properly, nor had she got the origin of the quip correctly, but Bob was aware of nothing but consternation and the desire to please. He could not argue. You don't argue with an adorable piece of femininity that stirs your pulses, and sends the blood racing through the veins. “ I hope they are not all ill to live with,” he said humbly. “ Would you mind being more definite nke? I live by myself and read a lot, and think over what I am reading.” Bob had his dreams, too, of doing big things out in the world, making the name of Bobert Christie to ring through it, though how he did not quite know. He felt a sudden desire to acquaint Fenella with some of his secret ambitions, liven already he had got as far as wishing she might share them. “ So far as I have any experience of the Scotch they have too much conceit,” she said soberly. “We have a man teacher in our school who is the limit. He can’t be snubbed. The more you sit on him, and even insult him, the more persistently he bobs up again. That’s why I say they never know when they are beaten.” ‘‘But he would be a good teacher, I could wager,” said Boh. confidently. ‘‘Well enough, no belter than anybody else, although to hear him you would think he had all the wisdom of all tlie ages collected in his cranium.” ‘‘By Jove, Miss Fenella, if he gets your tongue round him he shouldn’t have much of that kind of conceit left,” said Bob, and his face fairly shone with the heat of his rising excitement. ‘‘Now you are being rude. I think we’d better rejoin these nice, elderly people.” ‘‘l didn’t mean to be rude,” cried Bob, penitently. “I was only thinking I wouldn’t like to he in that teacher’s shoes, not by a long chalk, and that I’d be saying very little in your hearing.” ‘‘But I’ve been told you talk rather a lot, Mr Christie, and that you think nobody knows as much as you/’ said Fenella sweetly. ‘‘Who told you that great big lie?” asked Bob, with the nearest approach to the roaring voice which had gotten him the sobriquet of “Roarin’ Christie.” ‘ Tots and lots of little birds, and now you’re doing it.” “Doing vdiat?” asked Bob, clean dumbfounded. “Shouting at poor, little, innocent me. That’s why they call you ‘ Roarin’ Bob ’ heie.” ‘‘Who calls me that?” asked Bob, hearing this monstrous item of information for the first time. “Everybody- I was filled with such curiosity to see you, you couldn’t think! And in your father’s house you didn’t say much. But now I see you are really one of the sort Carlyle wrote about.” “But I’m no such thing!” cried poor Bob. “I wish I could get these leears by the throat.” “Yes, of course, you'd wring the life out of them. It’s all true, and oh, I do think it such a pity!” “What’s a pity?'’ asked poor Bob. not knowing now whether his head or his heels were uppermost. “That you should be like that, for you could be quite a nice man, you know, if you only took a little trouble.” Bob’s" expression at this sally would have given joy to any artist or student of facial expression. It showed complete bewilderment, punctuated bv resentment, or he was entirely and completely satisfied with himself. In fact, he thought he had fewer faults than anybody he knew. Without a moment’s warning, as is the way of women, Fenella changed both her tactics and her front. “I said I’d do it, and I have, and now I don’t believe you’re half as black as you’re painted, so there! Now, do tell' me what is the name of that hill with the trees halfway up it, and where the road leads to that you can just see above the treetops.” “Oh, that I don’t know, and I care less,” said Bob, and his voice was reckless. In a moment of time, just when his

hopes were soaring, they were slaughtered. He saw himself in an entirely different light. Try as she would, Fenella could not lift—no, nor yet penetrate, the deep gloom into which she had cast him, though, woman-like, she used her best endeavour. A call behind warned them of some change of tactics on the part of the rest of the company, and they were obliged to stand still. It transpired that they had walked far enough for Mrs Gillespie. She wanted to go home. While they were arguing, this way and that, Bob took the opportunity of slipping away, quite deliberately, and without so much as a good-night, he just disappeared. “What’s the matter wi’ Boh?’’ inquired his mother. “He’s no very weel, like. He must hae eaten too much of the currant bread for his tea. He aye liked it, and his housekeeper is no baker. Fenella stuffed her handkerchief in her mouth, her eyes dancing with amusement. Poor Bob had got more to upset him than an overdose of his mother’s famous currant bread. He was walking fiercely across the fields to his own house, chewing the cud of the criticisms he had received from a mere girl. An impudent jade, he called her, quite loud out. That did not in the least dispose of what she had said—nay, is only gave him furiously to think. He had l hitherto imagined himself a personas grata with all women-folk whatsoever, and that, being the most eligible husband in these parts, he had but to pick and choose wnen he liked. Could it be possible that he had made a mistake—that Fenella’s estimate was the true one? Was he gey ill to live with? Had he a colossal conceit? Did he. drive and deave folk with his own loud-mouthed assertions of superiority? That was a queer Sunday in Boh Christie’s life, and the searching hours of thought he put in between that and next day framed 1 an experience he was not likely to forget. It might have been thought that, after such a chastening at the hands of a* woman,, an upstart from the south, he would have been in no hurry to see her again. No fear! After tea next day he dressed himself carefully and walked across the fields to Dunleece, not to his mother’s house, but to the pretty one nearby where Fenella was visiting the Gillespies. He was relieved to see her in the garden, sitting on a gnarled old seat under an apple tree, industriously knitting a jumper. He banged the gate of a set purpose, and when she raised her pretty head and saw him her colour faintly flickered, but she did not rise to greet him. “Good day to you Miss Mouat,” he said raising his cap. “I hope I see you well.” “Oh, yes. I’m sorry Mr and Mrs Gillespie are out, but they will not be long. Will you go into the house and wait for them?” “I will not —;I have come to see you!” he said quietly. Had he been of a very observant nature he might have discerned that her indifference was merely put on, and that she was really rather nervous. She made all sorts of wrong stitches in the intricate pattern „ she was trying to copy from a hook. At last, possibly compelled by his deep gaze, she threw it petulantly on the seat and raised her head. “I wonder yon would come to see me at all, after last night,” she said in a low voice. “I thought you’d never speak to me again.” A moment’s silence. “And I hardly slept a wink last night, thinking over -what you said. believe there’s a lot of truth in it.’ This so astounded Fenella that she almost stumbled off her perch. “Well, I don’t believe there is any truth in it.” she said in a quick, queer voice. “And I’ll tell them go, too. Fact is, Mr Christie, the world is full of people who hate to see other people successful or happy. Don’t mind them.” After a pause she continued: “And I think it would he a very good thing if, instead of tearing folk to tatters, they’d he looking more at themselves. When I heard them going on about you I just said I’d ask you whether it was all true. They never believed I would, but I did. and know ! ” “Did vou tell them all you said to me and all I said to you?” asked Bob rather humbly. “ Good gracious ! What do you take me for? ” asked Fenella. “ I may be impudent, hut I’m not as mean as that.” Once more Bob found this Fenella perplexing. He had . flouted the very idea of love, had laughed at the antics of other men. yet now he wanted nothing in the world hut to take her in his arms, to hid her make or mar him, as she willed, if only she would keep him all the days of her life. “ T wish you’d sit down,” said Fenella. “ I’m not wanting to sit, only to stand here and look at you, and to go on sneaking. There’s something in what you wore saying to me last night. Nohndv has ever stood up to me like that. The only way T see that I can he saved from from —damnation. I was going to say, hut yoiiii wouldn't like a swear word. I’m sure you understand ” Something she saw in his eyes caused the colour to flutter in her rounded cheeks again. When she. did not sav anything, Boh went on calmly : “ The only wav T can he saved ‘is for you to take me in hand yourself. Will you? T’ll do my best, and mavhe you'd find me not so ill to live wi’ as you think—that is to say, after vou’d—after you’d—put me in the straight path. A very queer thing happened just then. Fenella, with eyes full of tears that seemed to spring from some hidden and unresisting source, rose suddenly, tried to say something, and then fell, or was gathered, neither could have said which, into Boh Christie's arms. * * * » * “We daren’t tell them yet,” said Fenella after a long while. “ We’ll have to wait and write letters to one another, and prepare the way.”

“ We’ll do no such thing,” said Bob with easy masterfulness, which did not bode very well for the success of the experiment Fenella was supposed to be going to make. “ We’ll tell them this very night.” “Oh, but they'll think I am out of my mind! ” Let them, so long as I don't think it. Maybe, however, we’re, both a little that way. Does it matter? All i know is I’ve never been so happy in the whole of my mortal life.” “ I might say the same, Bob,” Fenella whispered. And I don’t mind telling you now that when I saw you in your mother’s parlour last night I _hoped this was going to happen.” So they were married; and if they did not live happy ever after, at least they had a very fair share of happiness—as much as is good for anybody in this vale of tears. Bob Christie became a. changed, and very much more human and lovable man.