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. 249 It was a woman’s writing, and the writing was familiar to her. The half-obliterated post office stamp assured 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 passionate 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 hoard 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 250 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 muff 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 251 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 252 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.”