"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 cla.s.s."
"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 circ.u.mstantially 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, n.o.ble letter. Of course he answered it properly."
Then Roberta told him all the circ.u.mstances 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?"