ROBERTA INTERFERES
Small service is true service while it lasts.
He that maketh haste to be rich shall not be innocent.
Nearly two years had passed since James Ruleson's death, and Christine
was facing an embarrassing condition. She was nearly without money.
During the severe illness which followed her husband's death, Margot
had entrusted all she had to Christine, except the sum she had
retained for her own burial; and Christine knew this was a provision
all Culraine women regarded as a sacred duty. To break into this sum
would be a serious, perhaps a dangerous, trial to Margot. However,
there was the ninety pounds that Neil had borrowed from her, and never
repaid. Now she must apply for it, must indeed urge its immediate
return, and she wrote her brother the following letter:
DEAR NEIL,
We are in a sair strait. I am nearly without money, and Mither has
none left but her burial siller, and you know it will nearly kill
her to break into that. I would not ask you to pay me the ninety
pounds you owe me, if there was any other way I could do. I would
go out and sell fish, before I would trouble you. But surely it
will not be hurting you any way now, to pay ninety pounds. Jim
Carnagie was telling me that you were doing a well-paying
business. Dear Neil, it is for your mither! She pleaded for you to
have your own will and wish all your life long. I need not remind
you of all her thoughtfulness for your comfort, while you were at
the Maraschal. She is dying, a cruel, hard, long death. I cannot,
no, I cannot, trouble her last days anent the siller she needs for
food to keep her in life, and for medicines to soothe her great
pain. Neil, I have always loved and helped you. I was glad when
Miss Rath took to you kindly, for I knew you had to have some
woman to look after your special ways and likings. Tell her the
truth, and I am sure she will not oppose your paying such a just
debt. Neil, answer me at once. Do not think about it, and delay
and delay. You know, dear Neil, it is getting on the fourth year,
since I loaned you it, and you promised to pay me out of the first
money you earned. I think, dear, you will now pay me as lovingly
as I let you have it when you needed it so badly.
Mither does not know I am writing you, or even that we need money,
so haste to make me more easy, for I am full of trouble and
anxiety.
Your loving sister,
CHRISTINE.
This letter had a singular fate. It was left at Neil's house five
minutes after Neil had left his house for a journey to London, on some
important business for the Western Bank. It was consequently given to
Mrs. Ruleson. She looked at it curiously. It was a woman's writing,
and the writing was familiar to her. The half-obliterated post office
stamp assured her. It was from Neil's home, and there was the word
"Haste" on the address, so there was probably trouble there. With some
hesitation she opened and read it, read slowly and carefully, every
word of it, and when she had done so, flung it from her in passionate
contempt.
"The lying, thieving, contemptible creature," she said, in a low,
intense voice. "I gave him ninety pounds, when his father died. He
told me then some weird story about this money. And I believed him. I,
Roberta Rath, believed him! I am ashamed of myself! Reginald told me
long syne that he knew the little villain was making a private hoard
for himself, and that the most o' his earnings went to it. I will look
into that business next. Reggie told me I would come to it. I cannot
think of it now, my first care must be this poor, anxious girl, and
her dying mother. I believe I will go to Culraine and see them! He has
always found out a reason for me not going. I will just show him I am
capable of taking my own way."
She reflected on this decision for a few moments, and then began to
carry it out with a smiling hurry. She made arrangements with her cook
for the carrying on of the household for her calculated absence of
three days. Then she dressed herself with becoming fashion and
fitness, and in less than an hour, had visited the Bank of Scotland,
and reached the railway station. Of course she went first to
Edinburgh, and she lingered a little there, in the fur shops. She
selected a pretty neck piece and muff of Russian sable, and missed a
train, and so it was dark, and too late when she reached the town to
go to the village of Culraine.
"It is always my way," she murmured, as she sat over her lonely cup
of tea in her hotel parlor. "I am so long in choosing what I want,
that I lose my luck. I wonder now if I have really got the best and
the bonniest. Poor father, he was aye looking for a woman to be a
mother to me, and never found one good enough. I was well in my
twenties before I could decide on a husband; and I am pretty sure I
waited too long. Three women bought furs while I was swithering
about mine. It is just possible to be too careful. Liking may be
better than consideration. Johnny Lockhart told me if I would
trust my heart, instead of my brain, I would make better decisions. It
might be so. Who can tell?"
In the morning, when she had finished her breakfast, she went to the
window of her room and looked into the street. Several Culraine
fishing-women were calling their fresh haddock and flounders, and she
looked at them critically.
"They are young and handsome," she thought, "but their dress is
neither fashionable, nor becoming. I should think it was a trial for a
pretty girl to wear it--too short petticoats--stripes too yellow and
wide--too much color every way--earrings quite out of fashion--caps
picturesque, but very trying, and a sailor hat would be less trouble
and more attractive. Well, as the fisherwomen are crying fresh
haddock, I should think I may call on Christine, and not break any
social law of the place."
Christine was not now a very early riser. If Margot had a restless,
bad night, both of them often fell asleep at the dawning, and it had
occasionally been as late as eight o'clock when their breakfast was
over. Roberta Rath's visit happened to fall on one of these belated
mornings. It was nearly nine o'clock, but Margot had just had her
breakfast, and was washed and dressed, and sitting in a big chair by
the fireside of her room.
Christine was standing by a table in the living room. There was a
large pan of hot water before her, and she was going to wash the
breakfast dishes. Then there was a soft, quick knock at the door, and
she called a little peremptorily, "Come in." She thought it was some
girl from the school, who wanted to borrow a necklace or some bit of
finery for an expected dance. And it is not always that the most
obliging of women are delighted to lend their ornaments.
When Roberta answered her curt invitation, she was amazed. She did not
know her, she had never seen Roberta, nor even a likeness of her, for
there were no photographs then, and the daguerreotype was expensive
and not yet in common request. She looked with wide-open eyes at the
lady, and the lady smiled. And her smile was entrancing, for she
seemed to smile from head to feet. Then she advanced and held out her
hand.
"I am Roberta," she said. And Christine laid down her cup and towel,
and answered with eager pleasure, "You are vera welcome, Roberta. I am
Christine."
"Of course! I know that. You are exactly the Christine I have dreamed
about," and she lifted up her small face, and Christine kissed her,
before she was aware. It was the most extraordinary thing, and
Christine blushed and burned, but yet was strangely pleased and
satisfied.
"Can I stay with you till four this afternoon, Christine? I want to
very much."
"You will be mair than welcome. Mither will be beside hersel' wi' the
visit. Is Neil wi' you?"
"No. I have come of my own wish and will. Neil is in London. Let me
speak to the man who drove me here, and then I will tell you how it
is."
She left the house for a few minutes, and came back with a beaming
face, and a parcel in her hand. "Suppose, Christine," she said, "you
show me where I can take off my bonnet and cloak and furs." So
Christine went with her to the best bedroom, and she cried out at the
beauty of its view, and looked round at the books and papers, and the
snow-white bed, and was wonder struck at the great tropic sea shell,
hanging before the south window; for its wide rose-pink cavity was
holding a fine plant of musk-flower, and its hanging sprays of bloom,
and heavenly scent, enthralled her.
"What a charming room!" she cried. "One could dream of heaven in it."
"Do you dream, Roberta?"
"Every night."
"Do you like to dream?"
"I would not like to go to bed, and not dream."
"I am glad you feel that way. Some people cannot dream."
"Poor things! Neil could not understand me about dreaming. Nor could I
explain it to him."
"Lawyers don't dream. I have heard that. I suppose the folk in the
other warld canna fash themselves wi' the quarreling o' this warld."
Roberta was untying the parcel containing the furs, as Christine
spoke, and her answer was to put the long boa of sable around
Christine's neck and place the muff in her right hand. Now, good fur
suits everyone--man or woman--and Christine was regally transformed by
it.
"Eh, Roberta!" she cried. "What bonnie furs! I never saw the like o'
them! Never!"
"But now they are yours!"
"You dinna--you canna mean, that you gie them to me, Roberta?"
"I surely do mean just that. I give them to you with all my heart and
you look like a Norse princess in them. Come, give me a kiss for the
boa, and a kiss for the muff, and we will call the gift square."
Then Roberta kissed Christine and they laughed a sweet, gay little
laugh together. And Christine said, "I hae always wanted a sister. Now
I hae gotten one weel to my liking! And O, the bonnie furs! The bonnie
furs! They suit me fine, Roberta! They suit me fine!" and she smiled
at herself in the little mirror, and was happy, beyond expression.
"You are as happy as if you had found a fortune, Christine!"
"I hae found mair than a fortune, Roberta! I hae found a sister! I
wasna looking for such good luck to come to me!"
"That is the way good luck comes--always as a surprise. We watch for
it on the main road, and it just slips round a corner." Then Roberta
took Christine by the hand, and they went to the living-room, and
Christine began to wash her teacups, and as she laid them dripping on
the tray, Roberta took the towel and wiped them dry.
"You shouldna do that, Roberta."
"Why not, Christine?"
"It isna wark for you."
"While Father lived, I always washed the china beside him. Then he
read the newspaper, and we had happy talks. We were plain-living folk,
until Father died. Then Reggie and I set up for quality. We had the
money, and Reggie had quality friends, and I thought it would be
fine."
"Do you think it is fine?"
"It is no better than it is spoken of. Christine, can you guess what
brought me here?"
"Did you get a letter I wrote Neil?"
"Yes."
"Then I know why you came."
"Neil had just left for London. You asked for no delay. So I brought
the money, Christine, and I had the Bank calculate the proper amount
of interest for four years, at five per cent."
"There was no interest asked. There is none due. I didna lend a' the
money I had on interest, but on love."
"Then here is the money, Christine, and I must thank you for Neil, for
the long credit you have given him."
"I havena been needing the siller until now, but now it is a real
salvation."
Christine put the money in her breast, and then together they put the
cleansed china in its proper place. Just as they finished this duty, a
little handbell tinkled, and Christine said,
"That is Mither's call. Let us go to her."
"Mither, dear Roberta is here. She has come to see you." And the young
woman stood looking into the old woman's face, and in a moment
something inarticulate passed between them. They smiled at each other,
and Roberta stooped and kissed the white, worn face. There needed no
further explanation. In a few minutes the three women were conversing
in the most intimate and cheerful manner. To her mother, Christine
appeared to be rather silent. Margot wished she would be more
effusive, and she exerted herself to make up for Christine's
deficiency in this respect. But the release from great anxiety often
leaves the most thankful heart apparently quiet, and apparently
indifferent. Many who have prayed fervently for help, when the help
comes have no words on their tongues to speak their gratitude. Flesh
and spirit are exhausted, before the Deliverer they are speechless.
Then He who knoweth our infirmities speaks for us.
To make what dinner she could, and put the house in order was then
Christine's duty, and she went about it, leaving Roberta with Margot.
They soon became quite at ease with each other, and Christine could
hear them laughing at their own conversation. After awhile they were
very quiet, and Christine wondered if her mother had again become
sleepy. On the contrary, she found Margot more alive and more
interested than she had seen her since her husband's death.
There was a crochet needle between them, and they were both absorbed
in what it was doing. Crochet was then a new thing on the earth, as
far as England and Scotland was concerned; and at this date it was the
reigning womanly fad. Margot had seen and dreamed over such patterns
of it as had got into magazines and newspapers, but had never seen the
work itself. Now Roberta was teaching her its easy stitches, and
Margot, with all a child's enthusiasm, was learning.
"Look, Christine," she cried. "Look, Christine, at the bonnie wark I
am learning! It is the crochet wark. We hae read about it, ye ken, but
see for yoursel'. Look, lassie," and she proudly held out a strip of
the first simple edging.
The three women then sat down together, and there was wonder and
delight among them. A bit of fine, delicate crochet now gets little
notice, but then it was a new sensation, and women thought they lacked
an important source of pleasure, if they went anywhere without the
little silk bag holding their crochet materials. Roberta had crocheted
in the train, as long as it was light, and she fully intended to
crochet all day, as she sat talking to her new relations.
Margot could knit blindfolded, she learned by some native and natural
instinct. In two days she would have been able to teach Roberta.
There was a simple dinner of baked fish, and a cup of tea, and
Christine beat an egg in a cup and was going to carry it to Margot,
when Roberta stayed her. "Does she like it in that sloppy way?" she
asked.
"Weel, it is for her good. She has to like it."
"We can make it far nicer. See here," and Roberta beat the egg in the
cupful of milk, added a little sugar, and placed it in the oven. In a
few minutes it was a solid, excellent custard, and Margot enjoyed it
very much. "I ne'er liked raw food," she said, "and raw egg isna any
more eatable than raw fish, or raw meat."
In the afternoon the Domine and Jamie came in, and Roberta won his
heart readily with her gay good nature and thoughtful kindness to the
sick woman. He had put a letter into Christine's hand, as he came in
and said to her, "Go your ways ben, and read it, but say naething to
your mither anent its contents. Later I'll give you good reasons for
this."
So Christine went away, and opened her letter, and there fell from it
a five-pound note. And the letter was from a great magazine, and it
said the money was for the "Fisherman's Prayer" and he would be very
glad if she would write him more about fishers. There were also a few
pleasant words of praise, but Christine's eyes were full of happy
tears, she could not read them. What she did was to lay the letter and
the money on her bed, and kneel down beside it, and let her silence
and her tears thank the God who had helped her. "I was brought low and
He helped me," she whispered, as she bathed her eyes and then went
back to the company.
Such a happy afternoon followed! The Domine was in a delightful mood,
Jamie recited for the first time "How Horatio Kept the Bridge," and
Margot was as busy as her weak, old fingers would let her be. With the
Domine's approval, Christine showed her letter to Roberta, and they,
too, held a little triumph over the good, clever girl, for it was not
vanity that induced her confidence, it was that desire for human
sympathy, which even Divinity feels, or He would not ask it, and
Himself prompt its offering.
Soon after five o'clock they had a cup of tea together, and Roberta's
cab was waiting, and the fortunate day was over. Roberta was sorry to
go away. She said she had had one of the happiest days of her life.
She left her own little silk crochet bag with Margot, and gave her
gladly her pretty silver hook with its ivory handle, and the cotton
she had with her. She said she would send hooks of different sizes,
and the threads necessary for them, and also what easy patterns she
could find.
She went away amid smiles and blessings, and the Domine and Jamie went
with her. They would see her safely to her hotel, they said, but she
would not part with them so early. She entreated them to dine and
spend the evening with her. And so they did. And their talk was of
Christine, of her love and patience, and her night-and-day care. Even
her orderly house and personal neatness were duly praised.
Roberta left for her Glasgow home, early on the following morning, and
arrived at Monteith Row a little wearied, but quite satisfied with the
journey she had taken. What the result to herself would be, she could
hardly imagine. But its uncertainty kept her restless. She had
resolved to clean and prepare the house for winter, during her
husband's absence, but she could not do it. A woman needs a stiff
purpose in her heart, when she pulls her home to pieces. If anything
is going to happen, it usually chooses such a time of discomfort and
disorder.
She found it far more pleasant to select crochet hooks and cotton for
Margot and herself. She sent the Domine a book that she knew would be
acceptable, and to Jamie she sent a Rugby School pocket-knife,
containing not only the knives, but the other little tools a boy finds
so necessary. To Christine she sent a large, handsome portfolio, and
such things as a person addicted to writing poetry requires. She could
settle to nothing, for indeed she felt her position to be precarious.
She knew that she could not live a day with Neil, unless he was able
to account satisfactorily for his theft--she called it theft to
herself--of the first ninety pounds.
Neil had promised to be home in a week, but it was two weeks ere he
returned. He said business had detained him, and what can a woman say
to "business"? It appears to cover, and even cancel, all other
obligations. If there had been any tendency in Roberta's heart to
excuse, or even to forgive her husband, he killed the feeling by his
continual excuses for delay. The lawyer who had accompanied him was
home. What was Neil doing in London, when the principal in the case
had returned?
At last she received particular instructions as to the train by which
he would arrive. She took no notice of them, though it had been her
custom to meet him. He was a little cross at this neglect, and more
so, when the sound of his peremptory ring at the door brought only a
servant to open it. He did not ask after her, and she did not appear,
so he gave his valise to the servant, with orders to take it into the
dining room. "I suppose your mistress is there?" he asked. He was told
she was there, and he added, "Inform her that I am in my room
preparing for dinner, and order the cook to serve it at once."
Roberta saw the valise brought in, and she made no inquiries
concerning it. She saw the dinner brought on, and she seated herself
in her place at the table, and drew the chair holding the valise
almost to her side. Then she waited.
Neil entered the room immediately. She did not turn her face to the
door when it opened. She said as if speaking to a servant, "Place the
soup at the head of the table. Mr. Ruleson is home."
When he took the head of the table, and so faced her, and could no
longer be ignored, she said, "Is it really you, Neil? By what train
did you arrive?"
"I told you, in my last letter, at what time I should arrive in
Glasgow. You did not meet me, as I expected. I had to take a cab
home."
"The stable man said one of the horses was acting as if it did not
feel well. He thought it had better not be driven."
"He thought it would be more comfortable to stay at home this wet
night. I had a very cold, disagreeable drive. I dare say I have taken
a severe cold from it."
"The soup waits, if you will serve it."
He did so, remarking the while, "I sent you word I would be home by
this train. Did you receive my letter?"
"Yes."
"Then why?"
"O you know, you have been coming by so many trains the past week, I
thought it best not to take the sick horse out on such an uncertainty
as your promise."
"I was, as I told you, detained by business."
"I hope you made it pay you."
"A few hundreds."
"Ah! Then you would not mind the expense of a cab."
"Do I ever mind necessary trifles?"
"I have never considered the matter," and the little laugh of
indifference which closed the sentence, made him look at her
attentively.
She was in full evening costume, and it struck him that tonight she
looked almost handsome.
"Did you intend to go out this evening? Has my coming home prevented
some social pleasure?"
"I had told Reginald to meet me in my box at Glover's Theater.
Reginald is a social pleasure no woman would willingly miss."
"I do not approve of Reginald Rath, and I would rather you did not
invite him to our box. His presence there, you know, would assuredly
preclude mine."
"I cannot interfere with dear Reggie's rights. The box is as much his,
as mine. Father bought it in perpetuity, when the theater was built.
The Merrys, and Taits, and others did the same--and Father left it to
Reggie and myself, equally."
"It would be very unpleasant to you, if Reginald married a woman you
did not like--and you really approve of so few women--it is remarkable
how few----"
"Yet I have found a woman since you went away, that is perfect--as
good and clever as she is beautiful."
"Where did you find her?"
"It is my little romance. I will tell you about her after dinner."
"I am not impatient."
This kind of half-querulous conversation continued during the service
of dinner, but when the cloth had been drawn, and the wine and the
nuts promised the absence of servants uncalled for, Roberta's attitude
changed. She took a letter from her bag, and pushed it towards Neil.
"It is your letter," she said, "it came ten days ago."
"Why did you open it?"
"The word 'haste' was on it, and I thought it might be an announcement
of your mother's death, or serious sickness--not that I thought you
would care----"
"Of course, I care."
"Then you had better read the letter."
She watched his face gathering gloom and anger as he did so, and when
he threw it from him with some unintelligible words, she lifted and
put it again in her bag.
"That is my letter, Roberta, give it to me."
"You have just flung it away from you. I am going to keep it--it may
be useful."
"What do you mean?"
"Neil, you must now answer me one or two questions. On your answers
our living together depends."
He laughed softly, and said, "Nothing so serious as that, surely,
Roberta!"
"Just that. When you went to your father's funeral, you told me that
you owed your sister ninety pounds. You said it was her life's savings
from both labor and gifts, and that she had loaned it to you, in order
to make possible your final year at the Maraschal. You said further,
that your father was not a saving man, and you feared they would be
pinched for money to bury him. And I loaned you ninety pounds, being
glad to see such a touch of natural affection in you. This letter from
Christine says plainly that you never paid her the ninety pounds you
borrowed from me. Is Christine telling the truth?"
"Yes."
"Yet, on your return, you gave me a rather tedious account of your
mother's and Christine's thankfulness for the money. It created in me
a wrong impression of your mother and sister. I asked myself why they
should be so crawlingly thankful to you for paying a just debt, and I
thought meanly of them. Why did you not pay them the ninety pounds you
borrowed from them? And why did you invent that servile bit of
thankfulness?"
"I will tell you, Roberta. When I got home I found the whole village
on my father's place. The funeral arrangements were, for a man in my
father's position, exceedingly extravagant, and I was astonished at my
mother's recklessness, and want of oversight. Christine was overcome
with grief, and everything appeared to be left to men and women who
were spending other people's money. I thought under the circumstances
it was better not to pay Christine at that time, and I think I was
right."
"So far, perhaps, you were prudent, but prudence is naturally mean and
as often wrong as right. And why did you lie to me, so meanly and so
tediously?"
"You have to lie to women, if you alter in the least anything you have
told them. You cannot explain to a woman, unless you want to stand all
day doing it. There are times when a lie is simply an explanation, a
better one than the truth would be. The great Shakespeare held that
such lies were more for number, than account."
"I do not take my opinion of lies from William Shakespeare. A lie is a
lie. There was no need for a lie in this case. The lie you made up
about it was for account, not for number--be sure of that. You admit
that you did not give Christine the ninety pounds you borrowed from
me, in order to pay your debt to her. What did you do with the
money?"
"Have you any right to ask me that question? If I borrowed ninety
pounds from the bank, would they ask me what I did with it?"
"I neither know nor care what the bank would do. I am seeking
information for Roberta Ruleson, and I shall take my own way to obtain
it."
"What is it you want to know?"
"What you did with that ninety pounds?"
"I banked it."
"In what bank? There is no record of it in the Bank of Scotland, where
I have always supposed, until lately, our funds were kept."
"I did not put it in the Bank of Scotland. Every business man has an
official banking account, and also a private banking account. I put
that ninety pounds to my private bank account."
"In what bank?"
"I do not give that information to anyone."
"It must be pretty well known, since it has come as a matter of gossip
to me."
"You had better say 'advice' in place of gossip. What advice did you
get?"
"I was told to look after my own money, that you were putting what
little you made into the North British Security."
"I suppose your clever brother told you that. If Reginald Rath does
not leave my affairs alone, I shall make him."
"You will have a bad time doing it. Your check books, no doubt, are in
this valise. You will now write me a check on the North British for
one hundred and eighty pounds. It is only fair that the North British
should pay out, as well as take in."
"Why should I give you a check for a hundred and eighty pounds?"
"I gave you ninety pounds when you went to your father's funeral, I
took ninety pounds to Culraine ten days ago, in answer to the letter
Christine wrote."
"You went to Culraine? You, yourself?"
"I went, and I had there one of the happiest days of my life. I got
right into your mother's heart, and taught her how to crochet. I saw
and talked with your splendid sister. She is the most beautiful,
intelligent girl, I ever met."
"Such nonsense! She knows nothing but what I taught her!"
"She knows many things you know nothing about. I think she will become
a famous woman."
"When Mother dies, she will marry Cluny Macpherson, who is a Fife
fisher, and settle down among her class."
"I saw his picture, one of those new daguerreotypes. Such a
splendid-looking fellow! He was a Fife fisher, he is now Second
Officer on a Henderson boat, and wears their uniform. But it is
Christine I am telling you about. There is a new _Blackwood_ on the
table at your right hand. Turn to the eleventh page, and see what you
find."
He did so, and he found "The Fisherman's Prayer." With a scornful face
he read it, and then asked, "Do you believe that Christine Ruleson
wrote that poem? I have no doubt it is the Domine's work."
"Not it. I saw the Domine. He and that lovable lad he has adopted----"
"My nephew."
"Dined at the hotel with me. I never before met such a perfect man. I
did not know such men lived. The Domine was as happy as a child over
Christine's success. She got five pounds for that poem."
"I do not believe it."
"I read the letter in which it came. They praised the poem, and asked
for more contributions."
"If she is making money, why give her ninety pounds? It was
absurd----"
"It was just and right. You say you have made a few hundreds on this
London case, you will now write me a check for the two loans of ninety
pounds each."
"I did not borrow the last ninety pounds. You took it to Culraine of
your own will and desire. I do not owe the last ninety pounds. I
refuse to pay it."
"I will give you until tomorrow morning to change your mind. When
Christine wrote you the letter, now in your hand, she had not a
sixpence in the world--her luck came with the money I took her. I do
not think she will ever require anyone's help again. Oh, how could you
grudge even your last penny to a sister like Christine?"
"She owes everything to me. I opened up her mind. I taught her to
speak good English. I----"
"'I borrowed all her life's savings, kept the money through the death
of her father, the severe illness of her mother, and the total absence
of anyone in her home to make money or in any way help her to bear the
burden and fatigue of her great strait.' You can tell me in the
morning what you propose to do."
Then she rose, and left the room, and Neil made no offer to detain
her. In fact he muttered to himself, "She is a little premature, but
it may be as well."
In the morning he rose while it was yet dark, and leaving word with a
servant that he was going to Dalkeith and might be away four days, or
longer, he left in the gloom of fog and rain, and early twilight, the
home he was never to enter again. He had grown accustomed to every
luxury and refinement in its well-ordered plenty, and he had not the
slightest intention of resigning its comfortable conditions, but he
had no conception of the kind of woman with whom he had now to deal.
The wives of Culraine, while dominant in business, gave to their men,
in the household, almost an unquestioned authority; and Neil had no
experience which could lead him to expect Roberta would, in any
essential thing, dare to disobey him. He even flattered himself that
in leaving her alone he had left her to anxiety and unhappiness, and
of course, repentance.
"I will just give her a little lesson," he said to himself,
complacently. "She gave me until this morning. I will give her four or
five days of solitary reflection, and no letters. No letters, Neil
Ruleson! I think that treatment will teach her other people have
rights, as well as herself."
Roberta did not appear to be disquieted by his absence. She sent a
messenger for her brother, and ate a leisurely, pleasant meal, with
the _Glasgow Herald_ for a companion; and before she had quite
finished it, Reginald appeared.
"Your early message alarmed me, Roberta," he said. "I hope all is well
with you, dear?"
"Indeed, Reggie, I don't know whether it is well, or ill. Sit down and
I will tell you exactly how my life stands." Then she related
circumstantially all that had occurred--Neil's first request for
ninety pounds at his father's death--his appropriation of that sum,
and his refusal to say what had been done with it--Christine's letter
of recent date which she now handed to her brother. Reginald read it
with emotion, and said as he handed it back to his sister: "It is a
sweet, pitiful, noble letter. Of course he answered it properly."
Then Roberta told him all the circumstances of her visit to Culraine,
and when she had finished her narration, her brother's eyes were full
of tears.
"Now, Reginald," she asked, "did I do wrong in going myself with the
money?"
"Up to the receipt of Christine's letter, you supposed it had been
paid?"
"Certainly I did, and I thought Neil's family rude and unmannerly for
never making any allusion to its payment."
"So you paid it again, resolving to fight the affair out with Neil,
when he came home. You really accepted the debt, and made it your own,
and be sure that Neil will find out a way to make you responsible for
its payment in law. In point of truth and honor, and every holy
affection, it was Neil's obligation, and every good man and woman
would cry shame on his shirking it. Roberta, you have made the supreme
mistake! You have allied yourself with a mean, dishonorable caitiff--a
creature in whose character baseness and wickedness meet; and who has
no natural affections. As I have told you before, and often, Neil
Ruleson has one idea--money. All the comforts and refinements of this
home would be instantly abandoned, if he had them to pay for. He has a
miserly nature, and only his love of himself prevents him from living
on a crust, or a few potato parings."
"Oh, Reginald, you go too far."
"I do not. When a man can grudge his good, loving mother on her
death-bed anything, or all that he has, he is no longer fit for human
companionship. He should go to a cave, or a garret, and live alone.
What are you going to do? My dear, dear sister, what are you going to
do?"
"What you advise, Reginald. For this reason I sent for you."
"Then listen. I knew a crisis of some kind must soon come between you
and that--creature, and this is what I say--you must leave him. Every
day you stay with him insults your humanity, and your womanhood. He
says he will be four or five days away, we will have plenty of time
for my plan. Before noon I will have here wagons and men in sufficient
number to empty this house into Menzie's granite storage in two days.
Send the silver to the bank. I will put it in a cab, and take it
myself. Pack things you value highly in one trunk, which can be
specially insured. Our pictures we will place in the Ludin Picture
Gallery. We can clear the house in three days, and on the morning of
the fourth day, young Bruce Kinlock will move into it. If Neil can
face Kinlock, it will be the worse for him, for Kinlock's temper
blazes if he but hear Neil's name, and his hand goes to his side, for
the dirk with which his fathers always answered an enemy."
"Then, Reginald, when I have turned myself out of house and home, what
follows?"
"We will take a passage to New Orleans."
"New Orleans! Why there? Such an out-of-the-way place."
"Exactly. That creature will argue thus--they have gone to some place
on the Continent--very likely France. And he will probably try to make
you a deal of trouble. I have never named New Orleans to anyone. Even
our friends will never suspect our destination, for we shall go first
to France, and take a steamer from some French port, for New Orleans.
When we arrive there, we have a new world before us, and can please
ourselves where we go, and where we stay. Now, Roberta, decide at
once. We have time, but none too much, and I will work night and day
to get you out of the power of such a husband."
"He may repent."
"We will give him time and reason to do so. He has been too
comfortable. You have given him constant temptation to wrong you. He
will not repent until he feels the pinch of poverty and the want of a
home. Then he may seek you in earnest, and I suppose you will forgive
him."
"What else could I do? Would not God forgive him?"
"That is a subject for later consideration. If you will take my advice
you must do it with all your heart, and be as busy as I will be. We
want no altercation with him just yet."
"I give you my word, Reggie, that for two years I will do as you
advise. Then we will reconsider the question."
Then Reginald clasped her hand, and drew her to his side. "It is for
your salvation, dear, every way, and loneliness and deprivation may be
for his good. We will hope so."
"You once liked him, Reggie."
"Yes, I did. He betrayed me in every way he could. He purposely
quarreled with me. He wanted a free hand to follow out his own
business ideas--which were not mine. But this is now idle talk. Neil
will never be saved by people helping him. He must be left to help
himself."
"That is hope enough to work on. Tell me now, exactly what to do."
Reginald's plans had long been perfected, and by the noon of the third
day the beautiful home was nothing but bare walls and bare floors.
That same night, Reginald Rath and his sister left Glasgow by the
midnight train, and the following morning, Bruce Kinlock, with his
wife and five children, moved into the dismantled house, and in two
days it was in a fairly habitable condition. There was, of course,
confusion and a multitude of bustling servants and helpers, and a
pretty, frail-looking little lady, sitting helplessly in a large
chair, and Bruce ordering round, and five children in every place they
ought not be, but there was universal good temper, and pleasurable
excitement, and a brilliantly lighted house, when on the following
Saturday night, Neil drove up to his residence.
He thought, at first, that Mrs. Ruleson had a dinner party, then he
remembered Roberta's reverence for the Sabbath, and knew she would
not permit any dancing and feasting so near its daybreaking. The
Sabbath observance was also his own strong religious tenet, he was an
ardent supporter of Doctor Agnew and his extremist views, and
therefore this illumination in the Ruleson mansion, so near to the
Sabbath-day, offended him.
"Roberta knows that I am particular about my good name, and that I am
jealously careful of the honor of the Sabbath, and yet--yet! Look at
my house! It is lit up as if for a carnival of witches!" Then he
hurried the cab man, and his keys being in his hand, he applied the
latch-key to the lock. It would not move it, and the noise in the
house amazed him. He rang the bell violently, and no one answered it.
He raged, and rang it again. There was plenty of movement in the
house, and he could plainly hear a man's voice, and a guffaw of
laughter. He kept the bell ringing, and kicked the door with his
foot.
Then a passionate voice asked what he wanted.
"I want to get in. This is my house."
"It is not your house. It never was your house."
"What number is this?"
"Twenty-three, Western Crescent. What Tomfool asks?"
"This is my house. Open the door, or I will call the police." He did
call the policeman on the beat, and the man said, "A new family moved
in yesterday, Sir, and I was taken from Hillside Crescent, only two
days ago. I am on the night watch. I havena seen any o' them yet, but
there seems to be a big lot o' them."
"Do you know where the family went, who lived in twenty-three previous
to this new tenant?"
"I heard they went abroad--left in a great hurry, as it were."
Then Neil went back to the house, and rang the door bell with polite
consideration. "The new-comers will certainly know more than the
policeman," he thought, "and I can get no letter till Monday morning.
It will be very annoying to be in this doubt until then."
He had plenty of time for these reflections, for the bell was not
noticed, and he rang again with a little more impetuosity. This time
it was answered by a huge Highlander, with a dog by a leash, and a
dogwhip in his hand; and Neil trembled with fear. He knew the man. He
had once been his lawyer, and lost his case, and the man had accused
him of selling his case. There was no proof of the wrong, none at all,
and it was not believed by anyone except Reginald Rath, and even
Roberta allowed he was too prejudiced to be fair. These circumstances
passed like a flash through Neil's heart, as Bruce Kinlock glared at
him.
"How dare you show your face at my door?" he asked. "Be off, you
whippersnapper, or I'll set the dog on you."
"I have always believed, until the present moment, that this was my
house. Can you tell me where my family has removed to?"
"You never had any right in this house but the right of sufferance.
Honest Reginald Rath has taken your wife away--he's done right. Ye
know well you are not fit company for the lady Roberta. As for your
family, they have the pity of everyone. What kind of a brute is it
that has not a shilling for a dying mother, though he's owing his
family ninety pounds, and far more love than he deserves. Go, or it
will be worse for you! You sneaking ne'er-do-well."
Kinlock had spoken with inconceivable passion, and the very sight of
the red-headed, gigantic Highlander, sputtering out words that cannot
be written, and of the growling brute, that only required a relaxed
hand to fly at his throat, made him faint with terror.
"I am sure, Mr. Kinlock----"
"How daur you 'mister' me? I am Kinlock, of Kinlock! You had better
take yourself off. I'm at the end of my patience, and I cannot hold
this kind of a brute much longer. And if he grabs any kind of a human
being, he never lets go while there's life in him. I can't say how he
would treat you--one dog does not eat another dog, as a rule." Then he
clashed-to the door, and Neil was grateful. He did not ask again for
it to be opened.
He went to his office. Perhaps there was a letter for him there. It
was locked, and the man who kept the keys lived over the river.
Thoroughly weary and distressed, and full of anxious forebodings, he
went to a hotel, and ordered supper in his own room. He did not feel
as if he could look anyone in the face, with this dreadful uncertainty
hanging over his life. What was the matter?
Thinking over things he came to no conclusion. It could not be his few
words with Roberta on the night of his return from London. A few words
of contradiction with Roberta were almost a daily occurrence, and she
had always accepted such offers of conciliation as he made. And he was
so morally obtuse that his treatment of his mother and sister, as
influencing his wife, never entered his mind. What had Roberta to do
with his mother and Christine? Suppose he had treated them cruelly,
what right, or reason, had she to complain of that? Everything was
personal to Neil, even moralities; he was too small to comprehend the
great natural feelings which make all men kin. He thought Kinlock's
reference to his dying mother a piece of far-fetched impertinence, but
he understood very well the justice of Kinlock's personal hatred, and
he laughed scornfully as he reflected on the Highlander's longing to
strike him with the whip, and then set the dog to finish his quarrel.
"The Law! The gude Common Law o' Scotland has the like o' sic villains
as Kinlock by the throat!" he said triumphantly. "He wad hae set the
brute at my throat, if he hadna kent it wad put a rope round his ain
red neck. I hae got to my Scotch," he remarked, "and that isna a good
sign. I'll be getting a headache next thing. I'll awa' to bed, and to
sleep. Monday will be a new day. I'll mebbe get some light then, on
this iniquitous, unprecedented circumstance."