"Take your will wi' it, Sir."

"To write poetry teaches you how to write prose--teaches you the words of the English language, their variety and value. A good prose writer can write poetry, for he is acquainted wi' words, and can always find the word he wants; but a good poet is not often a good prose writer."

"How is that, Sir?"

"Because he is satisfied with his own vehicle of expression. He thinks it is the best. I am glad you have begun by writing poetry--but do not stop there." As he was speaking he folded up the bit of paper in his hand, and put it into his pocketbook. Then he went to speak to Margot.

"Margot," he said, "what do you think? Christine has been writing a poem, and it is better than might be."

"Christine has been making up poetry ever since she was a bit bairn.

She reads a great deal o' poetry to me out o' the books you sent her.

Oh, Domine, they hae been a wonderfu' pleasuring to us baith! Though I never thought I wad live to find my only pleasure in novels and bits o' poetry. Three or four years ago I wad hae laughed anyone to scorn who said such a thing could happen to Margot Ruleson. 'Deed wad I!"

"G.o.d often brings the impossible to pa.s.s, and even nourishes us on it.

What has Christine been reading to you?"

"She has read to me the doings o' David Copperfield, and about that puir lad, Oliver Twist. I was greatly ta'en up wi' the lads. I maist forgot mysel', listening to their troubles and adventures."

"Very good, Margot. What is she reading to you now?"

"A book by a Mr. Thackeray. His picture is in the book. It's what they ca' a frontispiece. He has a big head, and he isna handsome, but he looks like he could mak' up a good story."

"Is the book called 'Vanity Fair'?"

"That's the very name. I dinna see yet the meaning o' it."

"Do you like it?"

"Weel, I like the folks best that I shouldna like. There's an auld woman in it, that I wad gie a cup o' tea and an hour's crack to, any day, and be glad o' the pleasure o' it; and there's the girl, called Becky, that isna at a' a kirklike girl, but I canna help liking her weel. I think I wad hae been her marrow, if I had been born and brought up as she was. I'm sure it must be gey hard for men to mak' up the likeness o' a real good woman--they mak' them too good, you feel as if they should be in heaven, and mostly I find they send them there by early death, or some other disease, or mischance."

"So you like Becky?"

"I do. There's circ.u.mstances, Sir! They alter cases. They do that! If a woman has the fight wi' the warld on her hands, she'll be requiring a little o' the deil in her, just to keep the deil out o' her. I hope the man Thackeray has had sense enou' to mak' Becky come a' right at the lang end."

"I believe she becomes very respectable, and joins the Church of England."

"That would be the right thing for her. I hae heard that it is a vera broad church, and that its deacons----"

"Wardens, Margot."

"Wardens be it. I hae heard that they dinna dog its members round Sunday and work days, as our deacons do. Your ain deacons are vera officious, sir."

"Elder James Ruleson, while he lived, saw that every kirk officer did his duty."

"Thank you, Domine! It is good to hear his name. Everyone seems to have forgotten him--everyone."

"He is not forgotten, Margot. His name is on nearly every page o' the kirk books, and the school will keep his memory green. I am going to propose a Ruleson Day, and on it give all the children a holiday.

Weel, Margot, here comes Christine, and I believe she has Becky in hand." Then he turned to Christine and said, "You have taken steps on a fair road, go straight forward." And she smiled, and her smile was like sunshine, and the Domine felt the better for it. He lifted his head higher, and took longer steps, and walked home with a new and pleasant hope in his heart.

CHAPTER X

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 pa.s.sed since James Ruleson's death, and Christine was facing an embarra.s.sing 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 a.s.sured 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 pa.s.sionate 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 h.o.a.rd 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 m.u.f.f 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."