Christine, Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr [chromebook ebook reader txt] 📗

it with him. Then all the accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. Christine had been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings at Culraine. And it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn out to be a good story-writer.

About one-third of her first novel, "A Daughter of the Sea," was completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish it. She did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect and write down. The day passed with incredible swiftness, and early in the evening Norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire. Her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a smile on her still face.

"O Norman!" she cried, "how glad I am to see you! Nobody has been here since----"

"I know, dear. Folks hae thought it was the kinder thing to stop away, and let you get the house in order."

"Maybe it was. Come in, and see it, now that everything is in its place."

So Norman went through all the large, pleasant rooms with her, and he could not help a sigh, as he contrasted them with his own untidy and not over-cleanly house. Then they returned to the ordinary living-room, and when they were seated, Norman lit his pipe, and they talked lovingly of the mother who had gone away, and left her earthly home full of sweet memories. They spoke in soft, tender voices. Christine wept a little, and smiled a little, as she told of her mother's last days, and Norman's mouth twitched, and his big brown eyes were heavy with unshed tears.

After this delay, Norman put away his pipe, and bending forward with his elbows on his knees, and his head in his hands, he said, "Christine, I hae brought you a message. I hated to bring it, but thought it would come more kindly from my lips, than in any ither way."

"Weel, Norman, what is it? Who sent you wi' it?"

"My wife sent me. She says she will be obligated to you, if you'll move out o' the Ruleson cottage, as soon as possible. She is wanting to get moved and settled ere the spring fishing begins. These words are hers, not mine, Christine. I think however it is right you should know exactly what you hae to meet. What answer do you send her?"

"You may tell her, Norman, that I will ne'er move out o' the Ruleson cottage. It is mine as long as I live, and I intend to hold, and to live in it."

"Jessy has persuaded hersel' and a good many o' the women in the village, that you ought to marry Cluny as soon as he comes back to Glasgow, and go and live in that city, so as to make a kind o' a home there, for the lad. There was a crowd o' them talking that way, when I came up frae the boat this afternoon, and old Judith was just scattering them wi' her fearsome words."

"Norman, I shall not marry until a year is full o'er from Mither's death. Mither had the same fear in her heart, and I promised her on the Sacred Word, which was lying between us at the time, that I wouldna curtail her full year o' remembrance, no, not one minute! That is a promise made to the dead. I would not break it, for a' the living men in Scotland."

"They were talking of Cluny's rights, and----"

"Cluny hes no rights but those my love gives him. I will not marry for a year, at least. I will not live in Glasgow. I will bide in my ain hame. It suits me fine. I can do a' the writing I want to do in its white, still rooms. I can see wee Jamie here every day. I am out o' clash and claver o' the village folk. I can watch the sea and the ships, and feel the winds, and the sunshine, and do my wark, and eat my morsel in parfect peace. Na, na, the auld hame suits me fine! Tell your wife Christine Ruleson will live and die in it."

Norman did not move or speak, and Christine asked anxiously, "Do you wish me to leave Culraine, and go to Glasgow, Norman?"

"No, I do not! Your wish is mine, and if Mither were here today, I know she would scorn any proposal that brought Jessy here. She never liked Jessy."

"Her liking or disliking did not influence her will about the house. She loved every stone in this cottage, and above all she loved her garden, and her flowers. Tell me, Norman, if Jessy came here, how long would the house be in decent order? And where would Mither's bonnie flower-garden be, by the end o' the spring weather? For Mither's sake I'll tak' care o' the things she loved. They werna many, and they werna worth much, but they were all she had, for her hard working life, and her sair suffering. And she relied on you, Norman. She said in her last hours, 'If things are contrary, Christine, and you can't manage them, ca' on Norman, and nane else. Norman will stand by his sister, if a' the warld was against her.'"

"Ay, will he! Blood is thicker than water. We had the same Feyther and Mither. Nane better ever lived," and he stretched out his hand, and Christine clasped it, and then he kissed her, and went away.

Jessy was waiting for him. "Ye hae been a mortal lang time, Norman," she said. "I hae been that narvous and unsettled i' my mind, I couldna even get a bite ready for ye."

"Weel ye be to settle yoursel' now, Jessy; for my sister has her mind fixed on the way she has set hersel', and naebody will be able to move her. Naebody!"

"Is she getting her wedding things ready?"

"She is going to wear blacks for the full year."

"There's nae occasion for her to cast them. She can put on a white gown for the ceremony. I suppose they will hae the Domine come to the house and marry them."

"You are going ayont a' probabilities, Jessy. Christine willna marry for a full year. I am not sure she will ever marry."

"She be to marry! Of course she'll marry! She canna mak' a leeving oot a' a few bits o' poetry! She be to marry! All women hae to marry. Where is she going to bide?"

"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 God! O God, help me!"

Jessy, cowed and shocked at this unexpected passion 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