NEIL'S RETURN HOME
They that sin, are enemies to their own life.--Tobit, xii, 10.
But Thou sparest all, for they are Thine, O Lord, Thou Lover of
Souls.--Wisdom of Solomon, xi, 26.
Tomorrow is always another day, always a new day, and as long as we
live, always our day. It will bring us our little freight of good or
evil, and we must accept it, our salvation being that we have the
power of turning the evil into good, by the manner in which we accept
it. When Christine awoke in the morning, she awoke all at once. No
faculty of the Inner Woman dozed or lingered, every sense of the
physical woman was attent, even sight--which often delays after its
sister senses are conscious--promptly lifted its curtains, and
Christine knew in a moment that she was _all there_, every sense and
faculty alert, and ready for whatever the new day brought her.
She thought first of the trouble that Jessy was likely to make. "The
maist o' the women will side wi' Jessy," she thought, "not because
they like her, but because they dearly like a quarrel. I'll not
quarrel with them. I'll bide at hame, and if they come up here, I'll
bolt the doors on them. That's settled. I can neither keep back,
nor hurry forward Cluny, sae I'll just put him in God's care, and
leave him there. Neil has ta'en himsel' out o' my kindness and
knowledge, I can only ask God to gie his angel a charge concerning
him. The great queston is, how am I to get my bread and tea? There's
plenty o' potatoes in the house, and a pennyworth o' fish will make
me a meal. And I am getting a few eggs from the hens now, but
there's this and that unaccountable thing wanted every day; and I
hae just two-and-sixpence half-penny left. Weel! I'll show my
empty purse to the Lord o' heaven and earth, and I'm not doubting
but that He will gie me a' that is gude for me."
She put down her tea cup decisively to this declaration, and then
rose, tidied her house and herself, and sat down to her novel. With a
smile she opened her manuscript, and looked at what she had
accomplished. "You tiresome young woman," she said to her heroine.
"You'll hae to make up your mind vera soon, now, whether ye'll hae
Sandy Gilhaize, or Roy Brock. I'll advise you to tak' Sandy, but I
dinna think you'll do it, for you are a parfect daffodil o' vanity,
and you think Roy Brock is mair of a gentleman than Sandy. I dinna ken
what to do wi' you!----"
Here the door was noisily opened, and Jamie rushed in, crying "Auntie,
Auntie! I hae three letters for you, and one o' them came a week
ago."
"Oh Jamie, why did you not go to the post office before this?"
"I was getting ready for my exam----"
"Gie me the letters, laddie."
"And I could not get off till this morning."
There was a long letter from Cluny, but it was not the delayed letter;
and when Jamie had gone home, she gave her whole heart to the reading
of it. Then she turned anxiously to the other two. Both of them
contained small checks for poems written so long ago that she had
quite forgotten them. They were, however, veritable godsends, and she
thanked God for them. Now she could go to work. She could even take
time to make her foolish heroine do the proper thing. She felt as
rich, with her two pounds, as if the two had been twenty. And Cluny
was on his way home! Her letter had been posted at Auckland, and he
was about to leave there, for home, when he wrote.
The novel now progressed rapidly. It was writing itself, and "The
Daughter of the Sea" was all the company Christine wanted. Norman came
up the hill once in the day, or he sent his son Will, in his place,
and Jamie always ate his lunch beside Aunt Christine, and sometimes
Judith called to see if there was any news of Cluny. Sunday was her
day of trial. Ill-will can make itself felt, and never say a word, and
Christine noticed that everyone drew away from her. If Judith, or
Peter Brodie, or anyone spoke to her, they were at once set apart.
Everyone else drew away, and the very girls to whom she had been
kindest, drew furthest away.
It was, perhaps, a good thing for her. She only drew the closer to
God, and her pen was a never-failing friend and companion. The days
flew by, in the nights she slept and dreamed, and now and then the
Domine came in, and comforted and strengthened her. Then she read him
little chapters from her book, and he gave her much good advice, and
sufficient praise to encourage her. So week after week went on, and
though the whole village really disapproved of her retaining the
Ruleson cottage, she nearly forgot the circumstance. And the book grew
and grew in beauty, day by day, until on one lovely June afternoon,
the pretty heroine married Sandy Gilhaize, and behaved very well ever
afterward.
The Domine came in and found her flushed and excited over the wedding,
and the parting, and he took the book away with him, and told her he
would look after its sale, and she was to worry no more about it. "Try
and forget it exists, Christine, then neither your wishing nor your
fearing will interfere with the fortune your good angel intends for
it."
"I am going to gie the house a good clean, frae the roof to the
doorstep," she answered, "and when I hae that business on hand, it is
all I can think about."
"Is not cleaning the house again a work of supererogation?"
"I dinna ken what kind o' wark that may be, Sir, but Mither always
cleaned the house weel, before the herring came. She'll be expecting
me to do the same thing."
So the Domine took away the manuscript, and Christine cleaned her
house with even extra care, and one night a week afterwards, she sat
down to her cup of tea, telling herself that there wasna a speck o'
dust from the roof to the doorstane. "Even the knives and forks shine
like siller," she said, "and the bath-brick board wouldna file the
cleanest duster." She was personally in the same spotless condition,
and the little scone, and bit of baked fish, and the cup of tea on the
snow white tablecloth, only emphasized this sense of absolute purity.
As she was drinking her tea, Norman lifted the latch and entered, and
she greeted him joyfully. "Come awa' and welcome," she cried. "I was
just longing to see you. Bring a cup and saucer off the rack, laddie,
and sit down, and tell me what's going on in the village."
"Weel, the great news is the nearness o' the herrin'. From a' accounts
we may hae them in our bay in a week."
"I am glad o' the news."
"I dinna think you would be carin'."
"Why shouldn't I care? I am longing to mak' some money. I intend to
tak' up my mither's kippering."
"I'm glad o' that. Why should ye let it slip through your fingers? I
heard tell that Nancy Baird was thinking o' taking Mither's place."
"She'll do naething o' that kind. Mither took pains to fit me for that
wark, and I am going to do it wi' all my might. Norman, what can you
do to mak' it easy for me?"
"That is what I came here to talk to you about. I'll tell Willie he is
your gillie, as it were, for the fishing. He will carry the fish to
the shed for you, and dinna forget Mither's cubby there is yours!
Feyther paid for the space, and put up all the fixtures. If they werna
named in the will, and there is any question of my right in the
matter, say, I hae given it to you."
"But the kippering shed and fixtures were named and given to Mither
and mysel', and----"
"They are yours. Let no one put you oot o' your right. Willie will
bring the feesh to you--the finest I hae in my nets--and when they are
kippered, he'll go to the town wi' you, and carry your basket."
"That is all I need, Norman, and I am vera gratefu' for your
kindness."
"And I'll be walking through the shed, to see that a' is right. And if
anything is beyont you, sister, you'll send Willie for me."
Christine could not speak, but she put her hand in his, and the look
on her lovely face filled his eyes with tears. "You are wonderfu'
like Mither this afternoon, Christine," he said softly. And both were
silent a little while. When he spoke next, it was of Neil--"Hae ye had
a word frae the lad yet?" he asked.
"Not one, nor from the lass he married. I don't know what to think."
"Weel, it is as easy to think good, as evil. If we dinna thing wrang,
we won't do wrang. Thinking no evil! That is what the Good Book
advises. The puir lad was spoiled i' the making. If he comes back to
any o' us, he will come back to you, Christine. There was the son, wha
left his hame, in the gospels--ye ken how he was treated?"
"Whenever Neil comes hame, Norman, he will hae a loving welcome from
Christine."
"The puir lad made a mistake wi' his marriage. That is the warst of a'
mistakes. No man wins o'er it. It is the bitter drop in a' he eats and
drinks, it is the pebble in his shoe, whether he warks or plays. Neil
willna come hame till sorrow drives him here--then?"
"I'll do all that love can do, Norman."
"And call on me, if you think it needfu'."
The very next day Christine went to see her mother's customers.
The idea of Nancy Baird's stepping into her mother's shoes was
intolerable. "I'll not thole a thing like that! It settles the
question to me! If I didna need the money, I would kipper the
herrin', but I'm needing the money, and the herrin' are my lawfu'
venture." So to the town she went, and even far exceeded her usual
orders. She was much elated by her success, and immediately began
to prepare her mother's place for the work before her. It caused
much talk in the village, but it prevented the Baird woman's taking
unauthorized possession of Christine's place in the curing-shed.
Then while she was waiting and watching for the fish, she got a letter
from Cluny. He was at home again. He was coming to Culraine on
Saturday. He would be there by noon, and he would remain in Culraine
until Monday night. She was full of joy, and instantly began to
prepare for her visitor. It was Friday morning, and she had but little
time, but that little was enough if things went with her. First she
went to the village and asked Judith to come and stay with her, until
the following Tuesday, and the old woman was delighted to do so. "We
will hae Cluny to oursel's then," she said, "and I'll tak' the house
wark off your hands, Christine, and you and Cluny can hae the time for
your ain talk and planning."
"And man nor woman can say nae ill word anent Cluny visiting me, if
you are here."
"Lat them say their pleasure. They'll say naething oot o' the way,
while I am here. They ken better."
"Why not?"
"Because I hae promised ane and all o' them to call a church session
the first ill word I hear. I will hae their names read out frae the
pulpit--christened name and surname--and then they will be oot o'
communion wi' the kirk, till they confess their sin, standing up in
the congregation, and asking to be forgiven. Will ye think o' Sally
Johnson, and Kitty Brawn, and a' that crowd o' sinful women making
such a spectacle o' themsel's! Gar! It makes me laugh." And she
laughed, as women of the natural order do laugh, and such laughing is
very contagious, and Christine laughed also, as she gurgled out, "You
never would do a thing like that, Judith?"
"Wouldn't I? Lat them try me."
"The Domine wouldn't do it."
"He couldna help himsel'. It is in the 'Ordering o' the Kirk.' He wad
be forced to call the session, and I wouldn't won'ner if he rayther
liked the jarring occasion. He dislikes insulting women, and why
shouldn't he like to gie them a galling withstanding. It wad be vera
desirable i' my opinion."
Cluny had said, in his letter, that his next voyage would be the last
before their marriage, and that he would have to sweeten the next half
year with the memories of his coming visit. So Christine killed her
young, plump, spring chickens, and saved all her eggs, and provided
every good thing she could for her expected lover.
The next three days were days taken out of this work-a-day world, and
planted in Paradise. Everything appeared to unite to make them so.
Judith looked after the house, the lovers wandered in the hill side
garden. They were lovely days, green, shot with gold, and the whole
sweet place was a caress of scent. The roses in Margot's garden were
in their first spring beauty, and the soul of a white jasmine vine,
that surrounded the spot, breathed of heaven. The larkspurs stood
around like watchful grenadiers. Lilies and pansies were at their
feet, and the laburnum hung its golden droops above them. All the day
long, the sea was blue and calm, and the waves seemed to roll
themselves asleep upon the shore. At night, there was a full moon
above the water, and in its light the projecting rigging of some ships
lying on it looked like spider webs on the gray firmament. The sun,
and the moon, and the sea were all new, and the whole world was their
own.
Talk of their marriage no longer made trouble, for Christine now
sweetly echoed his hopes and his dreams. She had said "on the
fifteenth of next April, or there-abouts," and Cluny seized and clung
to the positive date. "Let it be the fifteenth," he decided. "I cannot
bear 'there-abouts,' or any other uncertainty."
"The fifteenth might fall on a Sunday."
"Then let it be Sunday. There can be no better day;" and Christine
smiled and lifted her beautiful face, and he wanted to give her a
thousand kisses. For nearly three days all the ancient ecstasies of
love and youth were theirs. I need say no more. The morning redness of
life and love has once tinged us all.
Judith went home the following day. Nothing less than the joys and
sorrows and contentions of the whole village, were sufficient for her
troubled and troubling spirit. Judith had everyone's affairs to look
after, but she gave the supremacy of her attention to Cluny and
Christine. Christine, she said, was a by-ordinary girl. She had
written a poem, and got gude siller for it, and there wasna anither
lass in Culraine, no, nor i' the hale o' Scotland, could do the same
thing.
Christine's first employment was to put her house in perfect order,
then she took out her old fisher dresses, and selected one for the
work before her. She hoped that her effort to take her mother's place
in the kippering shed would put a stop to the fisherwives' opinion
that she was "setting hersel' up aboon them a'." She longed for their
good will, and she had no desire whatever to "tak' her mither's
outstanding place," a fear of which intention some of the older women
professed.
Her first visitor was her brother Norman. He put a stop at once to all
her good and kind intentions. "You mustna go near the kippering," he
said. "I hae heard what must put a stop to that intent. The herrin'
are near by, and may be here tonight. If so be, I will send my lad,
Willie, to the foot o' the hill wi' your feesh, by five o'clock in the
morning. He will carry your basket easy, and do your bidding in a'
things. Gae yer ways to the town, and cry your feesh, and you'll hae
the siller in your hand when you come hame."
"Why can I not kipper my fish, Norman?"
"It isna worth while tellin' ye. God alone understands quarrelsome
women, but if you go to the kippering-shed, there will be trouble--and
trouble for me, Christine--for Jessy is in wi' them."
"I will do as you tell me, Norman. Hae the fish ready at six
o'clock."
Then Norman went away, and Christine put back in its place the
kippering suit, and took out her very prettiest selling suit. For her
mourning dress touched only her domestic and social life, her business
had its own dress, and the fisher dress was part of the business. She
had no sense of humiliation in assuming it, nor yet in the selling of
the fish. She had liked very well the little gossip with known
householders, and had not been offended by the compliments she
received from strangers and passersby. The first morning of this new
season was really a little triumph. All her old friends wanted to hear
about Margot's sickness and death, and when her basket was empty, she
sent Willie home and stayed with an old friend of her mother's, and
had a cup of tea and a fried herring with her.
They had much to talk about, and Christine resolved to stay with her
until the mail should come in, which would be about eleven o'clock.
Then if there was any letter for her, she could get it at once. "The
Domine is aye thoughtless anent the mail," she reflected, and then
with a little laugh added, "he hasna any love letters coming, or he
would be thinking on it."
She received two letters. One was a letter from Cluny, mailed at
Moville, Ireland. The other was from Blackwood's Publishing House,
offering her a hundred and fifty pounds advance, and ten per cent
royalty for her novel, or, if she preferred it, three hundred and
fifty pounds for all rights. She went to the Domine with this letter,
and he advised her to accept three hundred and fifty pounds for all
rights. "You will be requiring bride-dresses, and house-napery of many
kinds," he said, "and, my dear girl, God has sent you this check. He
knew you would have need of these things. You ought to be very happy
in this thought."
"I am, Sir. You know how 'just enough' has been my daily bread; and I
was worrying a little about wedding garments, and expenses."
"Well, Christine, of all life's fare, God's daily bread is best.
Answer your letter here, and I will mail it for you. In a few days you
will have plenty of money. Go at once, and put it in the bank."
"I will, Sir. And when I get home, I will begin another book at
once."
"Go with the fish, until you have the money in your hand. Things
unforeseen might happen to delay payment. Good Fortune does not like
us to be too sure of her. I have seen her change her mind in that
case."
"You are always right, Sir. I will do as you say."
"In three days you may expect the money. Do your work as if you were
not expecting it. Miss nothing of your duty."
So Christine went the second morning, and had extraordinary success.
Among the "Quality Houses" they were watching for her. They had never
before seen such fine, and such fresh fish. They would have no others.
She went home with her little purse full of silver, and her heart
singing within her. It was not, after all, so bad to be a fisher-girl.
If it was all small money, it was all ready money. And the people who
had known her mother had remembered her, and spoken kindly of her, and
Christine loved them for it. She had not yet forgotten. Oh no! Many
times in the day and night she cried softly, "Mither! Mither! Where
are ye? Dinna forget Christine!"
On the third morning she had a little adventure. She was delaying, for
she was waiting for the mail, and had taken a cup of tea with her
mother's old friend. She stood in the doorway talking, and Christine
was on the sidewalk, at the foot of the steps. Her empty basket was at
her feet. She stood beside it, and the sunshine fell all over her. Its
searching light revealed nothing but a perfection of form, a
loveliness of face, and a charm of manner, that defied all adverse
criticism. She looked as the women of that elder world, who were the
mothers of godlike heroes, must have looked.
Suddenly her friend ceased her conversation, and in a low hurried
voice said,
"Here comes the young master, and his bride! Look at them."
Then Christine turned her face to the street, and as she did so, a
carriage passed slowly, and Angus Ballister looked at her with an
unmistakable intention. It was a stern, contemptuous gaze, that
shocked Christine. She could make no response but sheer amazement, and
when the carriage had passed it required all her strength to say a
steady "good-morning" to her friend, and hurry down the road homeward.
Not then, and there, would she think of the insult. She put it
passionately beneath the surface, until she reached her home, and had
locked herself within its shelter. Then, she gave way utterly to her
chagrin and sorrow, and wounded pride, and wept such bitter, cruel
tears, as no other sorrow had ever caused her. She wept like a wounded
child, who knows it has been cruelly treated, who comprehends the
injustice of its pain and its own inability to defend itself, and
finds no friend or helper in its suffering.
Finally, when perfectly exhausted, she fell asleep and slept till the
sun set and the shadows of the night were on sea and land. Then she
arose, washed her tear-stained face, and made her tea. In her sleep
she had been counseled and comforted, and she looked at the
circumstance now with clear eyes.
"I got just what I deserved," she said bluntly to herself. "Why did I
go to the fishing at all? I wasna sent there. God took me awa' from
the fishing, and showed me what to do, just as He took King David from
the sheep-cotes, and made him a soldier. If David had feared and
doubted, and gone back to the sheep-cotes, he wouldna hae been King o'
Israel. Weel, when God took the nets out o' my hands, and told me to
sing, I got feared singing and story-telling wouldna feed me, and I
went back to the nets. Now then, Christine, thank God for the snubbing
you got. Yesterday I knew money was coming, plenty o' it. Why didn't I
sit still or go to the wark He wants me to do. Why? Weel, if I must
tell the bottom truth, I rayther fancied mysel' in my fisher dress. I
was pleased wi' the admiration I got baith frae the men and the women.
Something else, Christine? Ay, my Conscience, if I be to tell all, I
liked the gossip o' the women--also the pride I had in my ain strength
and beauty, and the power it gave me o'er baith men and women--ay, and
I liked to mak' the siller in my ain fingers, as it were--to say to
folk, 'here's your fish,' and then feel their siller in the palm o' my
hand. I was wrang. I was vera wrang. I wad be served as I deserve, if
thae book people went back on their word."
Just here the Domine and Jamie came, and the Domine had the letter
with the money in it. Then he noticed that she had been crying, and he
asked, "Who has been hurting you, Christine?" and she answered:
"Mysel', Sir. I hae been hurting mysel'." Then while he drank a cup of
tea, she told him the little circumstance, which even yet made her
draw her shoulders together, with a gasp of bitter chagrin.
"Christine, you will remember that I told you it was they who waited
patiently on the Lord, who received His blessing. Are you satisfied
now?"
"Oh, Sir! Do not ask me that question. You know I am satisfied."
"Then put this money in the bank, and go to wark with all your mind,
and all your soul. Being a woman you cannot preach, so God has chosen
you for the pen of a ready writer. Say all that is given you to say,
whether you get paid by the handicrafters, or not. God will see that
you get your wages. Goodnight! You may let the bit Ballister affair
slip out of your mind. The young man isn't naturally bad. He is
ashamed of himself by this time. No doubt of it."
These things happened at the beginning of the herring season, and for
two months Christine had a blessed interval of forgetfulness. Every
man, woman and child, was busy about the fish. They had no time to
think of the lonely girl, who had begun, and then suddenly abandoned
the fishing--nobody knew what for. But they saw her in the kirk every
Sabbath, apparently well and happy, and old Judith said she had nae
doubt whatever that Cluny had forbidden her to hae any pairt in the
clash and quarreling o' the women folk in the herrin' sheds, and why
not? Cluny would be a full captain, wi' all his trimmings on, when he
came to Culraine next April for his wife, and was it likely he would
be wanting his wife cryin' feesh, and haggling wi' dirty, clackin'
women, for a few bawbees? Christine was a lady born, she said, and her
Cluny would set her among the quality where she belonged. Judith had
no doubt whatever that Christine was obeying an order from Cluny, and
Jessy Ruleson said she was glad the lass had found a master, she had
always had too much o' her ain ill way.
For nearly three months Christine lived a quiet, methodical life,
undisturbed by any outside influence, and free from all care. She rose
very early, finding creative writing always easiest before noon. She
went to bed very early, knowing that the sleep before midnight is the
renewing sleep, and she hemmed the day, night and morn, with prayer,
to keep it from unraveling. All that could happen between these two
prayers was provided for, and she gave herself heart and soul to the
delightful toil of story-writing. She wrote as she felt. She used the
dialect and idioms of her people when it was necessary, and no one
checked her for it. It was her style, and style is the stamp of
individual intellect, as language is the stamp of race. Certainly it
is an habitual deviation from accuracy, but it is a deviation for the
purpose of communicating freedom and feeling. The pen is neither
grammar nor dictionary, its purpose is to be the interpreter of the
heart.
One morning in September she had a strange feeling of inability to
work. The fog dulled her mind. Nothing was firm and certain in her
ideas. She found herself dreaming of incoherent and mysterious things,
a woof of thought, as airy as the fog itself. "I'll put the paper and
pencil awa'," she said, "and I'll build up the fire, and make some
good bread, then if I am no mair awake I'll red up the house. There's
dust on everything and little wonder if there's dust on my mind, too."
Then someone tried to open the door and she called out, "Wait a wee!
I'll slip the bolt in a minute." When she had done so, she opened the
door and Neil, in a low broken voice said, "Christine! Let me in! Why
am I bolted out?" and he whimpered out the words, like a hurt child,
as he passed her.
She looked at him in amazement. She could hardly believe her own
senses. This was not her brother--a wan, trembling man, with the
clothing of a laborer, and his hair clipped close to his head.
"Bolt the door again," he said, in his old authoritative way, "and
give me something to eat. I am sick with hunger, and cold, and misery
of all kinds."
"I'll do all that, Neil, but where hae you been this lang time, and
what makes you sae poor, and sae broken down?"
"Get me something to eat, and I will tell you."
So she left him crouching over the fire, with his elbows on his knees,
and his face hidden in his hands. And she asked him no more questions,
but when he had had a good meal, he said, "You asked where I had been,
Christine? I hae been in prison--in the House of Correction. I was put
there by that villain Rath, who accused me of obtaining money under
false pretenses."
"I feared something of the kind. A man came here a short time before
mother died----"
"Mother dead!"
"Ay, going on eight months now."
And he cried out like some hurt animal, and Christine hasted to say,
"She left her love and her blessing. At the very last, she spoke o'
you, Neil."
"The man you were speaking of, what did he say?"
"He asked me for the particulars o' my loan to you. He pitied me, and
said you had a way o' getting money on vera questionable pretenses."
"Well, what then?"
"I said you made no pretenses to me, that you didna even ask me to
lend you money, that I offered it to you, and refused a' bond, or
acknowledgment, and only bid you pay me when money was easy wi' you.
And I took the liberty o' calling him a sneaking scoundrel, and
something else I'll not say o'er again. Then I wrote, and told you
the entire circumstance, and you never answered my letter."
"I never received it. Rath wanted to leave Scotland, and the case was
fairly rushed through. I was stunned. I think I lost my senses. I did
get a lawyer, but I am sure Rath bought him. Anyway, I lost the case,
and before I realized the situation, I found myself in prison for six
months. I was made to work--look at my hands--I had dreadful food,
dreadful companions. I was ill all the time. And when at last I was
set free, someone had claimed my fine clothing, and left me these
shameful rags."
"Oh Neil! dear Neil! Had you no money?"
"My lawyer charged me shamefully--literally robbed me--and I spent a
great deal while in prison in getting proper food, and any comfort I
could, at any price. After I got free, I was very ill in the hospital,
and more went, and I have only enough left to pay my passage to
America. I walked most of the way here. I'm a broken, dying man."
"You are naething o' the kind. All men mak' mistakes, a good many hae
a stumble on the vera threshold o' life, and they leap to their feet
again, and go prosperously ever afterward. You hae made a mistake, you
must master it, you hae had a sair stumble, and you are going to leap
to your feet, and run the rest o' your life-race to a clean, clear
victory. The first thing is your claes. I am going at once to the
Domine. You are about his size. I will get a suit, and some clean
linen from him."
"Oh Christine, he may tell----"
"The Domine betray you! What are you saying?"
"I can't trust anyone but you."
"But you must."
"Finlay knows my size and measure, exactly."
"Vera well, then go to Finlay."
"How can I go through the town, or even the village, in this dress?
You will hae to go for me."
"I will go to the Domine. It is impossible for me to go and buy a
man's full suit at Finlay's. He is a great talker. He wad want to ken
why and wherefore I was buying a man's suit--you ought to think o'
this, Neil. I'll ask Norman to go."
"Norman will hae to tell that silly fool he married."
"Then I had better go to the Domine. He willna cheep o' the matter to
anyone. Keep the doors bolted while I am awa', and go to your own old
room. It is a' ready for you."
Only half satisfied with these arrangements, he went fretfully to bed,
and Christine went as quickly as she could to the manse. The Domine
listened to her story with an air of annoyance. "I know Neil's story,"
he said, "and he has told it as far as his telling goes, as truthfully
as I expected. I am not so sure about his need of money, the clothing
is different. I will send over what is necessary, and call in the
afternoon and see him."
"Dinna be cross wi' the lad, Sir. He is sair broken down," and
suddenly Christine covered her face and began to cry with almost a
child's complete surrender to circumstances. The Domine soothed her as
he would have soothed a child, and she said, "Forgie me, Sir, I had to
give way. It is a' by now. I'm not a crying woman, you know that,
Sir."
"I do, and I am the more angry at those who compel you to seek the
relief of tears. But I'll be as patient as I can with Neil, for your
sake, and for his father's and mother's sake."
So Christine returned and Neil was difficult to awaken, but he heard
her finally, and opened the door, in a half-asleep condition. "So the
Domine refused you?" he said--"I thought he would."
"He did not refuse me. He will send, or bring, what you need, later."
"You should hae brought them with you, Christine. I dislike to be seen
in these disreputable rags. You should hae thought o' that."
"I should, but I didna."
Then she cooked dinner, and he sat beside her, and told, and retold
the wrongs and sufferings he had innocently endured. It was all
Reginald Rath he blamed, and he would not admit that his behavior had
been in any way provocative of it. "He was furious because I married
his sister, and naturally took the management of her money into my own
hands."
"Where are the Raths now?"
"I do not know. Somewhere in California, I suspect."
"Why?"
"My wife has a good deal of real estate there. It was of little value
when deeded to her. Its worth has increased enormously. Rath hated the
idea of it belonging to me."
"Neil, how does Roberta feel toward you?"
"She was angry as he was at first--but she loved me."
"Why do you not go to her?"
"I do not know where she is."
"Why not go to California?"
"I have not money enough. Whatever set you to writing books,
Christine?"
"How do you know I have been writing books?"
"I saw a review of a book by Christine Ruleson. It praised the bit
novel a good deal--Did you get much for it?"
"They paid me vera weel."
"How much?"
She hesitated a moment, and then said, "Three hundred and fifty
pounds."
"That is a deal of money for a book--I mean a storybook, like a novel.
I did not know writing novels paid so well, or I would have chosen it,
in place of the law."
"The Domine thinks writing as a profession must choose you, that you
cannot choose it."
"The Domine does not know everything. Have the men who bought it paid
you yet?"
"The publishers? Yes, they paid upon acceptance."
"How did you learn to write?"
"I never learned. I just wanted to write, and I wrote--something in me
wrote. My writing is neither here nor there. Go to your old room, and
lie down and sleep. The Domine may think it best for you to go
somewhere at once."
So Neil went to his room but he could not sleep, and about four
o'clock the Domine called for him. They met very coldly. The Domine
had long ago lost all interest in him as a scholar, and he resented
the way in which Neil had quietly shuffled off his family, as soon as
he supposed he had socially outgrown them. The young man was terribly
humiliated by the necessity of appearing in his dirty, beggarly
raiment, and the Domine looked at him with a pitying dislike. The
physical uncleanliness of Neil was repellent to the spotless purity
which was a strong note in the minister's personality. However, he
thought of the father and mother of Neil, and the look of aching
entreaty in poor Christine's face quite conquered his revulsion, and
he said, not unkindly, "I am sorry to see you in such a sad case,
Neil. You will find all you need in that parcel; go and dress
yourself, and then I shall be waiting for you." He then turned quickly
to Christine, and Neil found himself unable to offer any excuse for
his appearance.
"Poor Neil!" sighed Christine.
"Yes, indeed, poor Neil," answered the Domine. "What can man do for a
fellow creature, who is incapable of being true, and hardly capable of
being false?"
"I advised him to go to his wife. He says she loved him once, but
turned against him at her brother's request."
"She did, and a wife who cries out has everyone's sympathy."
"She will forgive him--if she loved him."
"She may, I have known women to go on loving and trusting a man found
out in fraud--only a woman could do that."
"A man----"
"No!"
"Oh, Domine, for father's sake--you loved father--for his sake, be
kind to poor, dispairing Neil."
"Yes, child, 'despairing'--that is, because he knows he is wrong, and
is not sorry for his fault. A good man in the presence of any
misfortune stands up, feels exalted, and stretches out his arms to the
Great Friendship--he never drifts like a dismasted ship."
Here Neil entered the room again, looking very respectable in the new
tweed suit which the Domine had brought him. "Does it fit you, Neil?"
he asked.
"As if made for me, Sir. I thank you for it."
"It was altered for you. Finlay knew your measure to a quarter of an
inch, he said. I told him you were not fit to come."
"Was that prudent, Sir?"
"Yes, for we are going away at once."
"I would like to rest with Christine for a few days."
"How can you think of such a thing? Do you want to ruin your sister as
well as yourself? Do you not know that Rath is going to sue you as
soon as your first sentence is served, for shortage in his money
account? He will keep up this prosecution, if you stay in this
country."
"What can I do? What can I do?"
"You must go to the United States, or Argentine, or India, or----"
"I have no money to spend in travel."
"How much have you?"
"Thirty pounds--and a little over."
"H-m-m! I will lend you twenty pounds, if you will repay it."
"Certainly, I will repay it. I will go to New York. I shall have a
little left, when I get there, I suppose. I shall have to travel
decently."
"You can get a comfortable passage for twelve pounds. With the balance
you can make a spoon, or spoil a horn. Many a good man has built a
fine fortune on less than forty pounds."
"I can spare fifty pounds, Sir. I will gladly give it."
"You cannot spare it. You need every shilling of it, and as I have
said--fifty pounds will make a man, or waste a man. Any Scotchman with
youth, education, and fifty pounds, feels sure of his share of the
world, or he is not worth his porridge."
"You forget, Sir, that I have the bonds of a false charge to fight."
"The charge was not false. Do what is right, in the future, and I
promise you that it shall never more come up against you. But if you
go on buying money with life and honor, you will have a second charge
to meet. I know whereof I speak. I have had several interviews with
Mr. Rath. He is my half-sister's nephew. He will do anything
reasonable I ask of him."
"My God! And you let me go to prison, and blasted my good name, and
made a beggar and a wreck of me. I won't have your help," and he
turned to Christine, and cried out passionately, "Christine!
Christine! Save me from a friend like this! Help me yoursel', dear
lassie! Help Neil yoursel'! For Mither's sake help Neil yoursel'."
She went quickly to his side. She put her arms round him--her white,
strong, motherly arms. She kissed his face, and wept with him, and she
said with a loving passion, all those soft, cruddling, little
sentences with which a mother soothes a hurt child. "I'll gie you a'
the siller you want, dearie. I'll gie it to you as a free gift. I'll
stand by ye through thick and thin. Guilty or not guilty, ye are my
ain dear brither! I don't believe you're guilty! You are feyther's
son, ye couldna be guilty. It's a' spite, and envy, and ill will.
Mither bid me be kind to you, and I will be kind, though all the
warld's against me!"
The Domine watched this scene with eyes full of tears, and a tender
fatherly look. He finally put his elbow on the table, and rested his
face in his hand, and no doubt he was praying for counsel. For he
presently stood up, and said in a kind, familiar voice, "Neil, we must
hurry, we have a little journey before us, if you get the next
Atlantic steamer. We will talk this matter fairly out, when we are
alone. It is cruel to force it on your sister. She knows, and you know
also, that you may safely put your trust in me."
Then Christine left the room, and when she returned the two men were
ready to leave the house. "Where are you taking Neil, Domine?" she
asked, in that lowered voice Fear always uses. "Where are you taking
my brother?"
"Only to Moville, Christine. There may be spies watching the outgoing
steamers--especially the American Liners--so he had better go to
Moville, and take his passage from there."
She did not answer. She bent her tearful, loving face to Neil's, and
kissed him again, and again, and whispered hurriedly--"Write to me
often, and soon," and when her hand unclasped from his, she left with
him the money she had promised. The Domine pretended not to see the
loving transaction, and the next moment the two men were wrapped up in
the thick darkness, which seemed to swallow up even the sound of their
footsteps.
That night Christine mingled her lonely cup of tea with tears, but
they were tears that had healing in them. Those to whom love has
caused no suffering, have never loved. All who have loved, have wept.
Christine had given away her heart, it had been bruised and
wounded--but ought she to love her brother less, because he had proved
himself unworthy? If anything could bring him back to her trust, would
it not be the prayers and tears born from her desolation? To regret,
and to desire, between these two emotions the horizons recede; they
are two spiritual levers, by which the soul can work miracles of
grace.
So the days went on in alternating sunshine and storm. The Domine or
Jamie came every day to see if all was well with her. Sometimes Norman
stopped long enough on an evening visit, to talk about Neil and to
wonder over his past and future. For though he had reached New York
safely, they knew little of his life. He said he had found a clerkship
in the general store of a merchant in a small town on the Hudson
River, about sixty miles from New York; but he intimated it was only a
resting place, till he felt ready to go to California. His great
anxiety was to obtain the knowledge of his wife's hiding-place, for he
was sure her brother was determined to keep them apart. And this
conviction was gradually making a reconciliation with her the chief
aim and desire of his unhappy life. He was sure the Domine knew where
she was, and his letters to Christine urged on her constantly a
determined effort to induce him to reveal her residence. Christine had
made three efforts to win the Domine's confidence, and had then
abandoned the attempt as utterly useless.
The herring-fishery with all its preparatory and after duties and
settlements was now quite past, and the school was in full swing
again, and the quiet days of St. Martin's summer were over the land.
All the magnificent flowers of early autumn were dead, but the little
purple daisy of St. Michael filled the hedges, and the crannies of the
moor. In the garden, among the stones of its wall, the mint and the
thyme and the wall flowers still swung in sunny hours, faint ethereal
perfume; but it was like the prayers of the dying, broken and
intermittent, the last offering of the passing autumn. There were gray
and ghostly vapors in the early morning, and the ships went through
them like spirits. The rains sobbed at the windows, and the wind was
weary of the rain. Sometimes the wind got the best of both fog and
rain, then it filled the sails of the ships, and with swelling canvas
they strutted out with the gale.
In the mornings, if the sea was willing, she saw the fishermen
hastening to the boats, with their oilskins over their arms, and
water bottle swinging at their sides. And it was the sea after all,
that was her true companion. The everlasting hills were not far
away, but they were young compared with the old, old, gray sea. Its
murmur, its loud beat of noisy waves, its still, small voice of mighty
tides, circling majestically around the world, all spoke to her. Her
blood ran with its tide, she wrote best when they were inflowing.
When it was high water with the sea, it was high water with
Christine's highest nature, spiritual and mental. Their sympathy
was perfect, and if taken away from the sea, she would have been as
miserable as a stormy petrel in a cage. So then, with the sea
spread out before her, and her paper and pencils in hand, she hardly
missed human companionship.
Still there were days when she wanted to talk, when singing did not
satisfy her, and one morning when she had watched a boat come ashore,
broadside on the rocks, she felt this need almost like a pain in her
heart. No lives had been lost, and she had watched her brother Norman
playing a godlike act of salvation with the life-boat, yet she had
what she called "a sair heartache!"
"It isna for the men," she said softly, "they are a' safe, through
God's mercy, and Norman's pluck and courage. I think it is for the
poor, poor boat, beaten and lashed to pieces, on thae black, cruel
rocks! Poor Boatie! left alane in her misery and death! And she did
her best! Nae doubt o' that! She did her best, and she had to die!"
Just then there was a knock at the door, and though she had a moment's
wonder at anyone's coming up the hill, so early in such rough weather,
she cried out, "Come in. Lift the hasp, and come in." Then she turned
round to see who would enter. It was Roberta Ruleson.