WHERE IS MY MONEY?
In the morning it was still more evident that Andrew had thrown himself
on God, and--unperplext seeking, had found him. But Janet wondered a
little that he did not more demonstratively seek the comfort of The
Book. It was her way in sorrow to appeal immediately to its known
passages of promise and comfort, and she laid it open in his way with
the remark:
"There is the Bible. Andrew; it will have a word, no doubt, for you."
"And there is the something beyond the Bible, Mother, if you will be
seeking it. When the Lord God speaks to a man, he has the perfection of
counsel, and he will not be requiring the word of a prophet or an
apostle. From the heart of The Unseen a voice calls to him, and gives
him patience under suffering. I _know_, for I have heard and answered
it." Then he walked to the door, and opening it, he stood there
repeating to himself, as he looked over the waters which had been the
field of his conflict and his victory:--
"But peace they have that none may gain that live;
And rest about them that no love can give
And over them, while death and life shall be,
The light and sound and darkness of the Sea."
It was a verse that meant more to Andrew than he would have been able
to explain. He only knew that it led him somehow through those dim,
obscure pathways of spiritual life, on which the light of common day
does not shine. And as he stood there, his mother and sister felt
vaguely that they knew what "moral beauty" meant, and were the better
for the knowledge.
He did not try to forget Sophy; he only placed her beyond his own
horizon; and whereas he had once thought of her with personal hope and
desire, he now remembered her only with a prayer for her happiness, or
if by chance his tongue spoke her name, he added a blessing with it.
Never did he make a complaint of her desertion, but he wept inwardly;
and it was easy to see that he spent many of those hours that make the
heart grey, though they leave the hair untouched. And it was at this
time he contracted the habit of frequently looking up, finding in the
very act that sense of strength and help and adoration which is
inseparable to it. And thus, day by day, he overcame the aching sorrow
of his heart, for no man is ever crushed from without; if he is abased
to despair, his ruin has come from within.
About three weeks after Sophy's marriage, Christina was standing one
evening at the gloaming, looking over the immense, cheerless waste of
waters. Mists, vague and troublous as the background of dreams, were on
the horizon, and there Was a feeling of melancholy in the air. But she
liked the damp, fresh wind, with its taste of brine, and she drew her
plaid round her, and breathed it with a sense of enjoyment. Very soon
Andrew came up the cliff, and he stood at her side, and they spoke of
Jamie and wondered at his whereabouts, and after a little pause, Andrew
added:--
"Christina, I got a very important letter to-day, and I am going
to-morrow about the business I told you of. I want to start early in
the morning, so put up what I need in my little bag. And I wish you to
say nothing to mother until all things are settled."
"She will maybe ask me the question, Andrew."
"I told her I was going about a new boat, and she took me at my word
without this or that to it. She is a blithe creature, one of the Lord's
most contented bairns. I wish we were both more like her."
"I wish we were, Andrew. If we could just do as mother does! for she
leaves yesterday where it fell, and trusts to-morrow with God, and so
catches every blink of happiness that passes by her."
"God forever bless her! There is no mother like the mother that bore
us; we must aye remember that, Christina. But it is a dour, storm-like
sky yon," he continued, pointing eastward. "We shall have a snoring
breeze before midnight."
Then Christina thought of her lover again, and as they turned in to the
fireside, she began to tell her brother her hopes and fears about
Jamie, and to read him portions of a letter received that day from
America. While Andrew's trouble had been fresh and heavy on him,
Christina had refrained herself from all speech about her lover; she
felt instinctively that it would not be welcome and perhaps hardly
kind. But this night it fell out naturally, and Andrew listened kindly
and made his sister very happy by his interest in all that related to
Jamie's future. Then he ate some bread and cheese with the women, and
after the exercise went to his room, for he had many things to prepare
for his journey on the following day.
Janet continued the conversation. It related to her daughter's marriage
and settlement in Glasgow, and of this subject she never wearied.
The storm Andrew had foreseen was by this time raging round the
cottage, the Clustering waves making strange noises on the sands and
falling on the rocks with a keen, lashing sound It affected them
gradually; their hearts became troubled, and they spoke low and with
sad inflections, for both were thinking of the sailor-men and fishermen
peopling the lonely waters.
"I wouldn't put out to sea this night," said Janet. "No, not for a
capful of sovereigns."
"Yet there will be plenty of boats, hammering through the big waves all
night long, till the dawn shows in the east; and it is very like that
Jamie is now on the Atlantic--a stormy place, God knows!"
"A good passage, if it so pleases God!" said Janet, lifting her eyes to
heaven, and Christina looked kindly at her mother for the wish. But
talking was fast becoming difficult, for the wind had suddenly veered
more northerly, and, sleet-laden, it howled and shrieked down the wide
chimney. In one of the pauses forced on them by this blatant intruder,
they were startled by a human cry, loud and piercing, and quite
distinct from the turbulent roar of winds and waves.
Both women were on their feet on the instant Both had received the same
swift, positive impression, that it came from Andrew's room, and they
were at his door in a moment. It was locked. They called him, and he
made no answer. Again and again, with ever increasing terror, they
entreated him to open to them; for the door was solid and heavy, and
the lock large and strong, and no power they possessed could avail to
force an entrance. He heeded none of, their passionate prayers until
Janet began to cry bitterly. Then he turned the key and they entered.
Andrew looked at them with anger; his countenance was pale and
distraught, and a quiet fury burned in his eyes. He could not speak,
and the women regarded him with fear and wonder. Presently he managed
to articulate with a thick difficulty:--
"My money! My money! It is all gone!"
"Gone!" shrieked Christina, "that is just impossible."
"It is all gone!" Then he gripped her cruelly by the shoulder, and
asked in a fierce whisper:
"What did you do with it?"
"Me? Andrew!"
"Ay, you! You wicked lass, you!"
"I never put finger on it"
"Christina! Christina! To think that I trusted you for this! Go out of
my sight, will you! I'm not able to bear the face of you!"
"Andrew! Andrew! Surely, you are not calling me a 'thief'?"
"Who, then?" he cried, with gathering rage, "unless it be Jamie Logan?"
"Don't be so wicked as to wrong innocent folk such a way; Jamie never
saw, never heard tell of your money. The unborn babe is not more
guiltless than Jamie Logan."
"How do _you_ know that? How do _I_ know that? The very night I told
you of the money--that very night I showed you where I kept it--that
night Jamie ought to have been in the boats, and he was not in them.
What do you make of that?"
"Nothing. He is as innocent as I am."
"And he was drinking with some strange man at the public. What were
they up to? Tell me that. And then he comes whistling up the road, and
says he missed his boat. A made up story! and after it he goes off to
America! Oh. woman! woman! If you can't put facts together. I can."
"Jamie never touched a bawbee of your money. I'll ware my life on that.
For I never let on to any mortal creature that you had a penny of
silent money. God Almighty knows I am speaking the truth."
"You won't dare to bring God Almighty's name into such a black
business. Are you not feared to take it into your mouth?"
Then Janet laid her hand heavily on his shoulder. He had sat down on
his bed, and was leaning heavily against one of the posts, and the very
fashion of his countenance was changed; his hair stood upright, and he
continually smote his large, nervous hands together.
"Andrew," said his mother, angrily, "you are just giving yourself up to
Satan. Your passion is beyond seeing, or hearing tell of. And think
shame of yourself for calling your sister a 'thief and a 'liar' and
what not. I wonder what's come over you! Step ben the house, and talk
reasonable to us."
"Leave me to myself! Leave me to myself! I tell you both to go away.
Will you go? both of you?"
"I'm your mother, Andrew."
"Then for God's sake have pity on me, and leave me alone with my
sorrow! Go! Go! I'm not a responsible creature just now--" and his
passion was so stern and terrific that neither of them dared to face
any increase of it.
So they left him alone and went back to the sputtering fireside--for
the rain was now beating down the chimney--and in awe-struck whispers
Christina told her mother of the money which Andrew had hoarded through
long laborious years, and of the plans which the loss of it would break
to pieces.
"There would be a thousand pounds, or near by it. Mother, I'm
thinking," said Christina. "You know well how scrimping with himself he
has been. Good fishing or bad fishing, he never had a shilling to spend
on any one. He bought nothing other boys bought; when he was a laddie,
and when he grew to the boats, you may mind that he put all he made
away somewhere. And he made a deal more than folks thought. He had a
bit venture here, and a bit there, and they must have prospered
finely."
"Not they!" said Janet angrily. "What good has come of them? What good
_could_ come of money, hid away from everybody but himself? Why didn't
he tell his mother? If her thoughts had been round about his siller, it
would not have gone an ill road. A man who hides away his money is just
a miracle of stupidity, for the devil knows where it is if no decent
human soul does."
It was a mighty sorrow to bear, even for the two women, and Janet wept
like a child over the hopes blasted before she knew of them. "He should
have told us both long since," she sobbed. "I would have been praying
for the bonnie ship building for him, every plank would have been laid
with a blessing. And as I sat quiet in my house, I would have been
thinking of my son Captain Binnie, and many a day would have been a
bright day, that has been but a middling one. So selfish as the lad has
been!"
"Maybe it wasn't pure selfishness, Mother. He was saving for a good
end."
"It was pure selfishness! He was that way even about Sophy. Nobody but
himself must have word or look from her, and the lassie just wearied of
him. Why wouldn't she? He put himself and her in a circle, and then
made a wilderness all round about it. And Sophy wanted company, for
when a girl says 'a man is all the world to her,' she doesn't mean that
nobody else is to come into her world. She would be a wicked lass if
she did."
"Well, Mother, he lost her, and he bore his loss like a man."
"Ay, men often bear the loss of love easier than the loss of money.
I've seen far more fuss made over the loss of a set of fishing-nets,
than over the brave fellows that handled them. And to think of our
Andrew hiding away his gold all these years for his own hoping and
pleasuring! A perfectly selfish pleasuring! The gold might well take
wings to itself and fly away. He should have clipped the wings of it
with giving a piece to the kirk now and then, and a piece to his mother
and sister at odd times, and the flying wouldn't have been so easy. Now
he has lost the whole, and he well deserves it I'm thinking his Maker
is dourly angry with him for such ways, and I am angry myself."
"Ah well, Mother, there is no use in our anger; the lad is suffering
enough, and for the rest we must just leave him to the general mercy of
God."
"'General mercy of God.' Don't let me hear you use the like of such
words, Christina. The minister would tell you it is a very loose
expression and a very dangerous doctrine. He was reproving Elder
McInnes for them very words, and any good minister will be keeping his
thumb on such a wide outgate. Andrew knows well that he has to have the
particular and elected grace of God to keep him where he ought to be.
This hid-away money has given him a sore tumble, and I will tell him so
very plainly."
"Don't trouble him, Mother. He will not bear words on it, even from
you."
"He will have to bear them. I am not feared for Andrew Binnie, and he
shall not be left in ignorance of his sin. Whether he knows it or not,
he has done a deed that would make a very poor kind of a Christian
ashamed to look the devil in the face; and I be to let him know it."
But in the morning Andrew looked so utterly wretched, that Janet could
only pity him. "I'll not be the one to break the bruised reed," she
said to Christina, for the miserable man sat silent with dropped eyes
the whole day long, eating nothing, seeing nothing, and apparently lost
to all interests outside his own bewildering, utterly hopeless
speculations. It was not until another letter came about the ship he
was to command, that he roused himself sufficiently to write and cancel
the whole transaction. He could not keep his promises financially, and
though he was urged to make some other offer, he would have nothing
from The Fleet on any humbler basis than his first proposition. With a
foolish pride, born of his great disappointment and anger, he turned
his back on his broken hopes, and went sullen and sorrowful back to his
fishing-boat.
He had never been even in his family a very social man. Jokes and songs
and daffing of all kinds were alien to his nature. Yet his grave and
pleasant smile had been a familiar thing, and gentle words had always
hitherto come readily to his lips. But after his ruinous loss, he
seldom spoke unless it was to his mother. Christina he noticed not,
either by word or look, and the poor girl was broken-hearted under this
silent accusation. For she felt that Andrew doubted both her and Jamie,
and though she was indignant at the suspicion, it eat its way into her
heart and tortured her.
For put the thought away as she would, the fact of Jamie's dereliction
that unfortunate night would return and return, and always with a more
suspicious aspect. Who was the man he was drinking with? Nobody in the
village but Jamie, knew him. He had come and gone in a night. It was
possible that, having missed the boat, Jamie had brought his friend up
the cliff to call on her; that, seeing the light in Andrew's room, they
had looked in at the window, and so might have seen Andrew and herself
standing over the money, and then watched until it was returned to its
hiding-place. Jamie _had_ come whistling in a very pronounced manner up
to the house--that might have been because he had been drinking, and
then again, it might not--and then there was his quarrel with Andrew!
Was that a planned affair, in order to give the other man time to carry
off the box? She could not remember whether the curtain had been drawn
across the window or not; and when she dared to name this doubt to
Andrew, he only answered--
"What for are you asking after spilled milk?"
The whole circumstance was so mysterious that it stupified her. And yet
she felt that it contained all the elements of sorrow and separation
between Jamie and herself. However, she kept assuring her heart that
Jamie would be in Glasgow the following week; and she wrote a letter to
meet him, expressing a strong desire that he would "be sure to come to
Pittendurie, as there was most important business." But she did not
like to tell him what the business was, and Jamie did not answer the
request. In fact, the lad could not, without resigning his position
entirely. The ship had been delayed thirty hours by storms, and there
was nearly double tides of work for every man on her in order that she
might be able to keep her next sailing day. Jamie was therefore so
certain that a request to go on shore about his own concerns would be
denied, that he did not even ask the favour.
But he wrote to Christina, and explained to her in the most loving
manner the impossibility of his leaving his duties. He said "that for
her sake, as well as his own, he was obligated to remain at his post,"
and he assured her that this obligation was "a reasonable one."
Christina believed him fully, and was satisfied, her mother only smiled
with shut lips and remained silent; but Andrew spoke with a bitterness
it was hard to forgive; still harder was it to escape from the wretched
inferences his words implied.
"No wonder he keeps away from Pittendurie!" he said with a scornful
laugh. "He'll come here no more--unless he is made to come, and if it
was not for mother's sake, and for your good name, Christina, I would
send the constables to the ship to bring him here this very day."
And Christina could make no answer, save that of passionate weeping.
For it shocked her to see, that her mother did not stand up for Jamie,
but went silently about her house duties, with a face as inscrutable as
the figure-head of Andrew's boat.
Thus backward, every way flew the wheels of life in the Binnie cottage.
Andrew took a grim pleasure in accepting his poverty before his mother
and sister. In the home he made them feel that everything but the
barest necessities were impossible wants. His newspaper was resigned,
his pipe also, after a little struggle He took his tea without sugar,
he put the butter and marmalade aside, as if they were sinful luxuries,
and in fact reduced his life to the most essential and primitive
conditions it was possible to live it on. And as Janet and Christina
were not the bread winners, and did not know the exact state of the
Binnie finances, they felt obliged to follow Andrew's example. Of
course, all Christina's little extravagances of wedding preparations
were peremptorily stopped. There would be no silk wedding gown now. It
began to look, as if there would be no wedding at all.
For Andrew's continual suspicions, spoken and unspoken, insensibly
affected her, and that in spite of her angry denials of them. She
fought against their influence, but often in vain, for Jamie did not
come to Pittendurie either after the second or the third voyage. He was
not to blame; it was the winter season, and delays were constant, and
there were other circumstances--with which he had nothing whatever to
do--that still put him in such a position that to ask for leave of
absence meant asking for his dismissal. And then there would be no
prospect at all of his marriage with Christina.
But the fisher folk, who had their time very much at their own command
and who were nursed in a sense of every individual's independence, did
not realise Jamie's dilemma. It could not be made intelligent to them,
and they began to wonder, and to ask embarrassing questions. Very soon
there was a shake of the head and a sigh of pity whenever "poor
Christina Binnie" was mentioned.
So four wretched months went by, and then one moonlight night in
February, Christina heard the quick footstep and the joyous whistle she
knew so well. She stood up trembling with pleasure; and as Jamie flung
wide the door, she flew to his arms with an irrepressible cry. For some
minutes he saw nothing and cared for nothing but the girl clasped to
his breast; but as she began to sob, he looked at Janet--who had
purposely gone to the china rack that she might have her back to
him--and then at Andrew who stood white and stern, with both hands in
his pockets, regarding him.
The young man was confounded by this reception, he released himself
from Christina's embrace, and stepping forward, asked anxiously "What
ever is the matter with you, Andrew? You aren't like yourself at all.
Why, you are ill, man! Oh, but I'm vexed to see you so changed."
"Where is my money, James Logan? Where is the gold and the bank-notes
you took from me?--the savings of all my lifetime."
"Your money, Andrew? Your gold and bank-notes? _Me_ take your money!
Why, man, you are either mad or joking--and I'm not liking such jokes
either." Then he turned to Christina and asked, "What does he mean, my
dearie?"
"I mean this," cried Andrew with gathering passion, "I mean that I had
nearly a thousand pounds taken out of my room yon night that you should
have gone to the boats--and that you did _not_ go."
"Do you intend to say that I took your thousand pounds? Mind your
words, Andrew Binnie!" and as he spoke, he put Christina behind him and
stood squarely before Andrew. And his face was a flame of passion.
"I am most sure you took it. Prove to me that you did not."
Before the words were finished, they were answered with a blow, the
blow was promptly returned; and then the two men closed in a deadly
struggle. Christina was white and sick with terror, but withal glad
that Andrew had found himself so promptly answered. Janet turned
sharply at the first blow, and threw herself between the men. All the
old prowess of the fish-wife was roused in her.
"How dare you?" she cried in a temper quite equal to their own. "I'll
have no cursing and fighting in my house," and with a twist of her hand
in her son's collar, she threw him back in his chair. Then she turned
to Jamie and cried angrily--
"Jamie Logan, my bonnie lad, if you have got nothing to say for
yourself, you'll do well to take your way down the cliff."
"I have been called a 'thief' in this house," he answered; and wounded
feeling and a bitter sense of wrong made his voice tremble. "I came
here to kiss my bride; and I know nothing at all of what Andrew means.
I will swear it. Give me the Bible."
"Let my Bible alone," shouted Andrew. "I'll have no man swear to a lie
on my Bible. Get out of my house, James Logan, and be thankful that I
don't call the officers to take care of you."
"There is a mad man inside of you, Andrew Binnie, or a devil of some
kind, and you are not fit to be in the same house with good women. Come
with me, Christina. I'll marry you tonight at the Largo minister's
house. Come my dear lassie. Never mind aught you have, but your
plaidie."
Christina rose and put out her hand. Andrew leaped to his feet and
strode between them.
"I will strike you to the ground, if you dare to touch my sister
again," he shouted, and if Janet had not taken both his hands in her
own strong grip, Andrew would have kept his threat. Then Janet's anger
turned most unreasonably upon Christina--
"Go ben the house," she screamed. "Go ben the house, you worrying,
whimpering lassie. You will be having the whole village fighting about
you the next thing."
"I am going with Jamie, Mother."
"I will take very good care, you do _not_ go with Jamie. There is not a
soul, but Jamie Logan, will leave this house tonight. I would just like
to see any other man or woman try it," and she looked defiantly both at
Andrew and Christina.
"I ran the risk of losing my berth to come here," said Jamie. "More
fool, I. I have been called 'thief' and 'loon' for doing it. I came for
your sake, Christina, and now you must go with me for my sake. Come
away, my dearie, and there is none that shall part us more."
Again Christina rose, and again her mother interfered. "You will go out
of this house alone, Jamie Logan. I don't know whether you are right or
wrong. I know nothing about that weary siller. But I do know there has
been nothing but trouble to my boy since he saved you from the sea. I
am not saying it is your fault; but the sea has been against him ever
since, and now you will go away, and you will stay away."
"Christina, am I to go?"
"Go, Jamie, but I will come to you, and there is none that shall keep
me from you."
Then Jamie went, and far down on the sands Christina heard him call,
"Good-bye, Christina! Good-bye!" And she would have answered him, but
Janet had locked the door, and the key was in her pocket. Then for
hours the domestic storm raged, Andrew growing more and more positive
and passionate, until even Janet was alarmed, and with tears and
coaxing persuaded him to go to bed. Still in this hurly burly of
temper, Christina kept her purpose intact. She was determined to go to
Glasgow as soon as she could get outside. If she was in time for a
marriage with Jamie, she would be his wife at once. If Jamie had gone,
then she would hire herself out until the return of his ship.
This was the purpose she intended to carry out in the morning, but
before the dawn her mother awakened her out of a deep sleep. She was in
a sweat of terror.
"Run up the cliff for Thomas Roy," she cried, "and then send Sandy for
the doctor."
"What is the matter, Mother."
"Your brother Andrew is raving, and clean beyond himself, and I'm
feared for him, and for us all. Quick Christina! There is not a moment
to lose!"