Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

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.”