Kirsteen: The Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago — John Shaqi
Kirsteen: The Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years AgoOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
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Kirsteen: The Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Domestic fiction; Scotland -- Fiction
And though Kirsteen cried, it was not altogether for trouble. It was for
extreme and highly-wrought feeling, sorrow and happiness combined.
Through all her twenty years of life there had been nothing to equal
that moment, the intensity of it, the expectation, the swift and sudden
realisation of all vague anticipations and wishes. It was only a minute
of time, a mere speck upon the great monotonous level of existence, and
yet there would be food enough in it for the thoughts of all future
years. When the thunder-shower of tears was exhausted, she sat quite
still in a kind of exalted contentment, going over it and over it, never
tired. The hot room and the smoky glare of the candles, and the fumes of
the whisky and the sound of all the voices, had been intolerable to her;
but in the fresh coldness of the night air, in that great quiet of
Nature, with the rustle of the leaves going through it like breath, and
the soft distant tinkle of the burns, what room and scope there was for
remembering; which was what Kirsteen called thinking--remembering every
tone and look, the way in which he approached the table where her work
was lying, her wonder if he would notice, the flush of perception on his
face as he said, “It’s my name too,” and then that tender theft, the act
that left Robbie for ever without one of his pocket-handkerchiefs,--she
thought with a gleam of fun how he would count them and count them, and
wonder how he had lost it--the little visionary letters put to his lips.
Oh that her heart had been sewn in with the hair to give to him! But so
it was, so it was! He had that pledge of hers, but she had nothing of
his, nor did she want anything to remind her, to bind her faith to him,
though it should be years before she saw him again. The tears started
into her eyes again with that thought, which gave her a pang, yet one
which was full of sweetness: for what did it matter how long he was
away, or how dark and still the time and space that separated them now.
“Will ye wait for me till I come back?” that would be the gold thread
that should run through all the years.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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