“Then there will be trouble, and no one so sorry for it as Christine! I’m telling you!”
At this moment Neil opened the door, and looked at the two women. “Mother,” he said in a tone of injury and suffering, “can I have any breakfast this morning?”
“Pray, wha’s hindering you? Your feyther had his, an hour syne. Your porridge is yet boiling in the pot, the kettle is simmering on the hob, and the cheena still standing on the table. Why didna you lift your ain porridge, and mak’ yoursel’ a cup o’ tea? Christine and mysel’ had our breakfasts before it chappit six o’clock. You cam’ hame wi’ your feyther, you should hae ta’en your breakfast with him.”
“I was wet through, and covered with herring scales. I was in no condition to take a meal, or to sit with my books and Christine all morning, writing.”
“I canna spare Christine this morning, Neil. That’s a fact.” His provoking neatness and deliberation were irritating to Margot’s sense of work and hurry, and she added, “Get your breakfast as quick as you can. I’m wanting the dishes out o’ the way.”
“I suppose I can get a mouthful for myself.”
“Get a’ you want,” answered Margot; but Christine served him with his plate of porridge and basin of new milk, and as he ate it, she toasted a scone, and made him a cup of tea.
“Mother is cross this morning, Christine. It is annoying to me.”
“It needna. There’s a big take o’ fish in, and every man and woman, and every lad and lass, are in the herring sheds. Mither just run awa’ from them, to see what orders for kippers I had brought – and I hae brought nine hundred mair than usual. I must rin awa’ and help her now.”
“No, Christine! I want you most particularly, this morning.”
“I’ll be wi’ you by three in the afternoon.”
“Stay with me now. I’ll be ready for you in half an hour.”
“I can hae fifty fish ready for Mither in half an hour, and I be to go to her at once. I’ll be back, laddie, by three o’clock.”
“I’m just distracted with the delay,” but he stopped speaking, for he saw that he was alone. So he took time thoroughly to enjoy his scone and tea, and then, not being quite insensible to Christine’s kindness, he washed the dishes and put them away.
He had just finished this little duty, when there was a knock at the outside door. He hesitated about opening it. He knew no villager would knock at his father’s door, so it must be a stranger, and as he was not looking as professional and proper as he always desired to appear, he was going softly away, when the door was opened, and a bare-footed lad came forward, and gave him a letter.
He opened it, and looked at the signature – “Angus Ballister.” A sudden flush of pleasure made him appear almost handsome, and when he had read the epistle he was still more delighted, for it ran thus:
Dear Neil,
I am going to spend the rest of vacation at Ballister Mansion, and I want you with me. I require your help in a particular business investigation. I will pay you for your time and knowledge, and your company will be a great pleasure to me. This afternoon I will call and see you, and if you are busy with the nets, I shall enjoy helping you.
Neil was really much pleased with the message, and glad to hear of an opportunity to make money, for though the young man was selfish, he was not idle; and he instantly perceived that much lucrative business could follow this early initiation into the Ballister affairs. He quickly finished his arrangement of the dishes and the kitchen, and then, putting on an old academic suit, made his room as scholarly and characteristic as possible. And it is amazing what an air books and papers give to the most commonplace abode. Even the old inkhorn and quill pens seemed to say to all who entered – “Tread with respect. This is classic ground.”
His predominating thought during this interval was, however, not of himself, but of Christine. She had promised to come to him at three o’clock. How would she come? He was anxious about her first appearance. If he could in any way have reached her, he would have sent his positive command to wear her best kirk clothes, but at this great season neither chick nor child was to be seen or heard tell of, and he concluded finally to leave what he could not change or direct to those household influences which usually manage things fairly well.
As the day went on, and Ballister did not arrive, he grew irritably nervous. He could not study, and he found himself scolding both Ballister and Christine for their delay. “Christine was so ta’en up wi’ the feesh, naething else was of any import to her. Here was a Scottish gentleman coming, who might be the makin’ o’ him, and a barrel o’ herrin’ stood in his way.” He had actually fretted himself into his Scotch form of speech, a thing no Gael ever entirely forgets when really worried to the proper point.
When he had said his heart’s say of Christine, he turned his impatience on Ballister – his behavior was that o’ the ordinary rich young man, who has naething but himsel’ to think o’. He, Neil Ruleson, had lost a hale morning’s wark, waiting on his lairdship. Weel, he’d have to pay for it, in the long run. Neil Ruleson had no waste hours in his life. Nae doubt Ballister had heard o’ a fast horse, or a fast —
Then Ballister knocked at the door, and Neil stepped into his scholarly manner and speech, and answered Ballister’s hearty greeting in the best English style.
“I am glad to see you, Neil. I only came to Ballister two days ago, and I have been thinking of you all the time.” With these words the youth threw his Glengary on the table, into the very center and front of Neil’s important papers. Then he lifted his chair, and placed it before the open door, saying emphatically as he did so —
Lands may be fair ayont the sea,
But Scotland’s hills and lochs for me!
O Neil! Love of your ain country is a wonderful thing. It makes a man of you.”
“Without it you would not be a man.”
Ballister did not answer at once, but stood a moment with his hand on the back of the deal, rush-bottomed chair, and his gaze fixed on the sea and the crowd of fishing boats waiting in the harbor.
Without being strictly handsome, Ballister was very attractive. He had the tall, Gaelic stature, and its reddish brown hair, also brown eyes, boyish and yet earnest. His face was bright and well formed, his conversation animated, his personality, in full effect, striking in its young alertness.
“Listen to me, Neil,” he said, as he sat down. “I came to my majority last March, when my uncle and I were in Venice.”
“Your uncle on your mother’s side?”
“No, on the sword side, Uncle Ballister. He told me I was now my own master, and that he would render into my hands the Brewster and Ballister estates. I am sure that he has done well by them, but he made me promise I would carefully go over all the papers relating to his trusteeship, and especially those concerning the item of interests. It seems that my father had a good deal of money out on interest – I know nothing about interest. Do you, Neil?”
“I know everything that is to be known. In my profession it is a question of importance.”
“Just so. Now, I want to put all these papers, rents, leases, improvements, interest accounts, and so forth, in your hands, Neil. Come with me to Ballister, and give the mornings to my affairs. Find out what is the usual claim for such service, and I will gladly pay it.”
“I know the amount professionally charged, but – ”
“I will pay the professional amount. If we give the mornings to this work, in the afternoons we will ride, and sail, fish or swim, or pay visits – in the evenings there will