“You talk foolishness. The Ballisters own twenty houses or mair, in Culraine.”
“Houses! Twa rooms, a but and a ben, and a heather roof. What are they bothering us the now for? They hae let Culraine well alane for years—it 135 is only sin’ you and your beauty cam’ to the forefront, that they hae remembered us. The factor, to gather their rents, was a’ we saw o’ them, till your brither brought that dandified lad here, and then the auld man had to come—on the report o’ your beauty, nae doubt.”
There was a fishing net which required mending, hanging against the wall, and Christine, standing in front of it, went on weaving the broken meshes together. She did not answer the jealous, impetuous young man, and all at once he became conscious of her silence.
“Why don’t you speak to me, Christine? Oh lassie, canna you pity a lad sae miserable as I am, and a’ for the love I hae for you. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m broken-hearted, if I hae angered you! My dear! My dear love! Will ye na speak ane word to me?”
Then she turned to him a face full of pity and anger, yet strangely beautiful. “Cluny,” she said, “I’ll talk to you, if you’ll speak o’ yoursel’ and let be a’ ither folk.”
“How can I? I’m sick wi’ the fear that you love, that you intend to marry Ballister. Tell me straight, and be done wi’ it, if that is what you intend to do.”
“You havna any right to ask me such a question. I never gave you any right to do sae.”
“You hae let me love ye wi’ a’ my heart and soul for fifteen years. Is that naething?”
“Ithers hae loved me, as weel as you.”