"Just where she is."

"I'll not hear tell o' that. The house is yours. After the widow's death, the home comes to the auldest son. That's the law o' Scotland, and I'm vera sure it's the law o' England likewise. It's the right law. When folks break it, the break is for sorrow. There was Robert Toddie, who left his house and land to his daughter Jean, and she married her lad, and took him to live there--never heeding her brother's right--and baith her bairn and hersel' died within a twelvemonth, and sae Robert cam' to his ain, and he's living in the Toddie house this day. Why dinna ye speak to me?"

"I hae heard ye tell the Toddie story till it's worn awa'."

"How was the house looking?"

"Clean and bright as a new-made pin."

"That's right! I'll just tak' the bairns and go up there! One room is a' she's needing, and I canna spare her that vera lang."

"You'll not daur to tak' a step up there. Ye hae no mair right there, than you hae in the schoolmaster's house."

"I hae every right there. I hae got the best o' advice on the subject.

I'm thinkin' the law stands aboon your opinion."

"Not even the law and the fifteen lords o' Edinburgh could gie you the right to put your foot on that place, in the way of the right.

Christine is mistress o' Ruleson's, mistress and owner. That, and naething less!"

Norman was very unhappy. He could not get the idea of his right to Ruleson cottage out of his wife's mind, and he had understood from the laying of its first stone that the building was to be for a home for Margot and Christine as long as either of them lived. He had some sentimental feelings also about the place, for Norman was a dumb poet, and both in his brain and heart the elements of humanity were finely mixed. But he was reticent and self-denying, and the work of his hands being needed by the rapidly increasing family, he had put forth no personal claims. Longing for knowledge and the wisdom of the schools, he had gone silently and cheerfully to the boats and lifted the oars at his father's side.

But the house he had helped to build was dear to him. The image of his grave, kind father still sat in the big chair by the fireside, and his mother's quick step, and cheerful voice, and busy household ways, were yet the spirit of the building. He loved its order and cleanliness, and its atmosphere of home and hospitality. Sitting by his fireside that night, he constantly contrasted it with his own disorderly, noisy dwelling, with his slip-shod wife, and her uncertain and generally belated meals. And his purpose was immovable.

During this silent session with himself, his wife never ceased talking. Norman was oblivious both to her entreaties and her threats.

But as he rose and laid down his pipe, she laid her hand on his arm, and said, "Gudeman, ye hae heard what I hae said, and----"

"I hae heard naething since I told you that Christine was owner and mistress o' Ruleson cottage. Let be, Jessy, I'm weary and ready for sleep."

"You'll hear this word, and then ye may sleep awa' what little sense you hae left. I'll go the morn into the town, and see Lawyer Forbes, and you'll mebbe believe him when he serves Christine wi' a notice to quit, and tak' her belongings--poems and a'--wi' her."

"If such a thing could happen, I should at once hae it deeded back to her, as a gift. Listen, woman, to my last word on this matter--if you could by any means get possession o' the house, ye would hae it from foundation to roof-bigging, all to yoursel'! Neither I, nor any o' my children, would cross its doorstane. That's a fact, as sure as death!"

"You couldna tak' my childer from me!"

"I could, and I would. Tak' your will, you foolish woman! I shall bide by every word I hae said."

"But Norman----"

"Let go! You hae never yet seen me in a blaze! Dinna try it tonight!

If I lift my hand it will be your ain fault. Get out o' my sight, and hearing! Quick, woman! Quick! I'm no' able to stand you langer--O G.o.d!

O G.o.d, help me!"

Jessy, cowed and shocked at this unexpected pa.s.sion of a patient man, disappeared; but the next moment she was heard in the children's room, crying and scolding, and the sharp slapping of her hand followed.

Norman jumped to his feet, his heart throbbed and burned, he clenched his hands, and took a step forward. The next moment he had sat down, his eyes were closed, his hands were clasped, he had hid himself in that secret sanctuary which his hard life and early disappointments had revealed to him, when he was only a lad of seventeen. Jessy's railing, the children's crying, his own angry voice, he heard them not! He was hiding in His pavilion, in the secret of His tabernacle.

He had cast his burden upon the Lord. He was in perfect peace.

Christine spent a restless, unhappy night. Norman had put before her a future that frightened her. She had seen the misery made by little wicked innuendoes half a dozen words long. Truly words could not kill her, but they could make life bitter and friendless, and there were women in the village she could neither conciliate, nor cope with, for the weapons they used were not in her armory. "Mither had a sharp tongue," she said softly, "but even she couldna cope wi' a lying tongue. Weel, there's words anent it, in the Good Book, and I'll seek them out, and they'll be helping me."

After all, the central trouble of her heart was neither her house, nor her neighbors, nor even her lover. Someway or other, they could and would be managed. But how was she to refill her empty purse? There was only one half-crown in it, and she had already found out the cruel uncertainty of literary work. It depended on too many people. Her novel was three-fourths done, but she reasoned that if men were so long on finding out whether they liked half a dozen verses, it would be all of a year, ere they got her novel well-examined. After realizing this condition, she said firmly, and with no evidence of unusual trial, "I can tak' to the fish, in the meantime. I havna outgrown my fisher dress, nor forgot my fisher-calls, and Culraine folk will help me sell, if I look to the boats for my bread. They dinna understand the writing business--nae wonder! There's few do! The Domine was saying it belongs to the mysteries o' this life. Weel, I'll get my pleasure out o' it, and the fish are ay sure to come, and sure to be caught, and if I set mysel' to the business, I can beat the auldest and youngest o' the fisherwomen in the selling o' them."

When she came to this decision, the clock struck twelve, and she looked up at its face for a moment, and shook her head. "I canna sleep yet," she said, "and you needna be calling me. There's Cluny and Neil to think o', and dear me, wha' can Neil be hiding himsel'? He canna hae heard o' Mither's death, he would hae come here, and if he couldna come, he would hae written. There has been nae word, either, from that la.s.s he married. She wrote seven lang pages o' faults and accusations again her lawful husband, and then let the matter drop, as if it was of no further consequence. I didn't answer her letter, and I am glad I didn't. And I canna write now, for I know no more anent her whereabouts, than I do anent Neil's. I wouldn't wonder if they are together in some heathen country, where men fight duels, and kill each other for an ugly word. In a case like that, it would be fair murder for poor Neil. I wish I knew where the misguided lad is! Norman and Neil had no marriage luck, and wha kens what my luck may be, in the way o' a husband!"

This intensely personal reflection claimed her whole attention. It was long since she had seen Cluny. Shortly before her mother's death, he had gone as supercargo on a large merchant steamer, bound for New Zealand. It was a most important post, and he had been promised, if successful, the first captaincy in the fleet of pa.s.senger steamers carrying between England and the United States, that was vacant.

Before leaving on this long trip to New Zealand, he had only managed to see Christine for three hours. He had reached Culraine at eight o'clock. He had run like a deer the mile and quarter which lay between the railway station and the Ruleson cottage, reaching his goal just as Christine finished reading a goodnight psalm to her mother. She had heard his steps afar off, it had seemed as if the comforting words were read to them--then she was at the open door, and they met in each other's arms.

Three hours of pure, perfect happiness had followed. Cluny went first to Margot's side. He knew it was the last time he could ever stand there. In this world they would see each other no more, and he was sorrowfully shocked and touched by the change in the handsome woman, once so vibrant and full of life. Sometimes they had not been very good friends, but this white, frail image, stretching out hands full of pleasure and goodwill to him--this gentle mother of the beloved Christine, won in a moment all his best sympathies. He promised her everything she asked, and then she sent him away with her blessing.

So it had been three hours of marvelous happiness. They had been content to forget all things but the joy of each other's presence. To the last possible minute he had remained with her, and their hopeful farewell had not been dimmed by a single tear. Since that night, she had sent no anxious worrying thoughts after him. From every port at which his ship touched, he had written her long, loving letters, and now she was beginning to expect his return. Any day she might have a letter from him, dated Liverpool or Glasgow.

"Lat them talk," she said with a little defiant laugh. "Lat their tongues tak' their ain ill-way, I'm not feared. There's Norman at my side, and the Domine not far off, and G.o.d aboon us all. I'll speak to Norman anent the fishing, and if needs be, I can kipper the herring as weel as Mither did." Then in a moment a wonderful change came over her, the angry scorn of her att.i.tude, and the proud smile on her handsome face vanished. She clasped her hands, and with the light of unconquerable love on her face, she said with tender eagerness--"What does she do now? Oh dear G.o.d, what is Mither doing now? I canna tell.

I canna tell, but it is Thy will, I'm sure o' that." Then the loving tears that followed this att.i.tude washed away all traces of her scorn and anger, and she lay down with prayer on her lips, and fell sweetly asleep.

CHAPTER XII

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 G.o.d's care, and leave him there. Neil has ta'en himsel' out o' my kindness and knowledge, I can only ask G.o.d 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 ma.n.u.script, 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 G.o.dsends, and she thanked G.o.d 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 G.o.d, 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 circ.u.mstance. 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.