“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 300 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 301 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!”