Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl Part 33

She went away amid smiles and blessings, and the Domine and Jamie went with her. They would see her safely to her hotel, they said, but she would not part with them so early. She entreated them to dine and spend the evening with her. And so they did. And their talk was of Christine, of her love and patience, and her night-and-day care. Even her orderly house and personal neatness were duly praised.

Roberta left for her Glasgow home, early on the following morning, and arrived at Monteith Row a little wearied, but quite satisfied with the journey she had taken. What the result to herself would be, she could hardly imagine. But its uncertainty kept her restless. She had resolved to clean and prepare the house for winter, during her husband's absence, but she could not do it. A woman needs a stiff purpose in her heart, when she pulls her home to pieces. If anything is going to happen, it usually chooses such a time of discomfort and disorder.

She found it far more pleasant to select crochet hooks and cotton for Margot and herself. She sent the Domine a book that she knew would be acceptable, and to Jamie she sent a Rugby School pocket-knife, containing not only the knives, but the other little tools a boy finds so necessary. To Christine she sent a large, handsome portfolio, and such things as a person addicted to writing poetry requires. She could settle to nothing, for indeed she felt her position to be precarious.

She knew that she could not live a day with Neil, unless he was able to account satisfactorily for his theft--she called it theft to herself--of the first ninety pounds.

Neil had promised to be home in a week, but it was two weeks ere he returned. He said business had detained him, and what can a woman say to "business"? It appears to cover, and even cancel, all other obligations. If there had been any tendency in Roberta's heart to excuse, or even to forgive her husband, he killed the feeling by his continual excuses for delay. The lawyer who had accompanied him was home. What was Neil doing in London, when the princ.i.p.al in the case had returned?

At last she received particular instructions as to the train by which he would arrive. She took no notice of them, though it had been her custom to meet him. He was a little cross at this neglect, and more so, when the sound of his peremptory ring at the door brought only a servant to open it. He did not ask after her, and she did not appear, so he gave his valise to the servant, with orders to take it into the dining room. "I suppose your mistress is there?" he asked. He was told she was there, and he added, "Inform her that I am in my room preparing for dinner, and order the cook to serve it at once."

Roberta saw the valise brought in, and she made no inquiries concerning it. She saw the dinner brought on, and she seated herself in her place at the table, and drew the chair holding the valise almost to her side. Then she waited.

Neil entered the room immediately. She did not turn her face to the door when it opened. She said as if speaking to a servant, "Place the soup at the head of the table. Mr. Ruleson is home."

When he took the head of the table, and so faced her, and could no longer be ignored, she said, "Is it really you, Neil? By what train did you arrive?"

"I told you, in my last letter, at what time I should arrive in Glasgow. You did not meet me, as I expected. I had to take a cab home."

"The stable man said one of the horses was acting as if it did not feel well. He thought it had better not be driven."

"He thought it would be more comfortable to stay at home this wet night. I had a very cold, disagreeable drive. I dare say I have taken a severe cold from it."

"The soup waits, if you will serve it."

He did so, remarking the while, "I sent you word I would be home by this train. Did you receive my letter?"

"Yes."

"Then why?"

"O you know, you have been coming by so many trains the past week, I thought it best not to take the sick horse out on such an uncertainty as your promise."

"I was, as I told you, detained by business."

"I hope you made it pay you."

"A few hundreds."

"Ah! Then you would not mind the expense of a cab."

"Do I ever mind necessary trifles?"

"I have never considered the matter," and the little laugh of indifference which closed the sentence, made him look at her attentively.

She was in full evening costume, and it struck him that tonight she looked almost handsome.

"Did you intend to go out this evening? Has my coming home prevented some social pleasure?"

"I had told Reginald to meet me in my box at Glover's Theater.

Reginald is a social pleasure no woman would willingly miss."

"I do not approve of Reginald Rath, and I would rather you did not invite him to our box. His presence there, you know, would a.s.suredly preclude mine."

"I cannot interfere with dear Reggie's rights. The box is as much his, as mine. Father bought it in perpetuity, when the theater was built.

The Merrys, and Taits, and others did the same--and Father left it to Reggie and myself, equally."

"It would be very unpleasant to you, if Reginald married a woman you did not like--and you really approve of so few women--it is remarkable how few----"

"Yet I have found a woman since you went away, that is perfect--as good and clever as she is beautiful."

"Where did you find her?"

"It is my little romance. I will tell you about her after dinner."

"I am not impatient."

This kind of half-querulous conversation continued during the service of dinner, but when the cloth had been drawn, and the wine and the nuts promised the absence of servants uncalled for, Roberta's att.i.tude changed. She took a letter from her bag, and pushed it towards Neil.

"It is your letter," she said, "it came ten days ago."

"Why did you open it?"

"The word 'haste' was on it, and I thought it might be an announcement of your mother's death, or serious sickness--not that I thought you would care----"

"Of course, I care."

"Then you had better read the letter."

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 circ.u.mstances 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?"