Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

CHAPTER XIV

AFTER MANY YEARS

Her life intensive rather than extensive; striking root downward, deep in the heart, not wide in the world.

A memory of dew and light, threaded with tears.

Not long before the breaking out of the present European war, I was in London, and needed a typist, so I went to a proper Intelligence Office on the Strand, and left a request directing them to send any likely applicant to my hotel for a conversation. On the next afternoon I heard a woman’s voice in an altercation with the bellboy. I opened the door, and the boy said he could not quite make out the lady; he was very sorry indeed, but the lady would not explain; and so forth.

The lady looked at the premature little man with contempt, and said a few passionate words of such unmistakable Scotch, that I felt the bellboy to be well within the pale of excusable ignorance.

“Are you from the Intelligence Office?” I asked.

“Yes, Madam. At the request of Scott and Lubbock I came to see you about copying a novel.”

“Come in then,” and as soon as the door was closed, I offered my hand, and said only one word – “Fife?”

“Ay,” she answered proudly, “Fife! I can speak good English, but the stupid lad made me angry, and then I hae to tak’ to the Scotch. I don’t hae the English words to quarrel wi’, and indeed if you want a few words of that kind, the Scotch words hae a tang in them that stings like a nettle, even if folk cannot quite make out the lady or gentleman that uses them.”

I could not help laughing. “What words did you use?” I asked.

“Naething oot o’ the way, I just told him, in a ceevil manner, that he was a feckless, fashious gowk, or something or ither o’ an idiotic make. He was just telling me he didn’t speak French, when you opened the door,” and then she laughed in a very infectious manner. “But this is not business, Madam,” she said, “and I will be glad to hear what you require.”

Our business was soon pleasantly arranged, and just then, very opportunely, my five o’clock tea came in, and I asked Miss Sarah Lochrigg to stay, and drink a cup with me, and tell me all about the Scotland of her day. “It is fifty years since I left Scotland,” I said, “there will be many changes since then.”

She took off her hat and gloves and sat down. “I come from a fishing village on the coast of Fife. They don’t change easily, or quickly, in a fishing village.”

“What village? Was it Largo?”

“No. Culraine, a bit north of Largo.”

“Never!”

“Ay, Culraine. Do you know the place?”

“I used to know people who lived there. Doctor Magnus Trenabie, for instance. Is he living yet?”

“No, he went the way of the righteous, twenty years ago. I remember him very well. He preached until the last day of his life, but he was so weak, and his eyesight so bad, that one of the elders helped him up the pulpit stairs, and another went up at the close of the service, and helped him down, and saw him safely home.

“One Sabbath morning, though he made no complaint, he found it difficult to pronounce the benediction, but with a great effort he raised his hands and face heavenward, and said every word plainly. Then he turned his face to the elder, and said, ‘Help me home, Ruleson,’ and both Ruleson and Tamsen took him there. He died sometime in the afternoon, while the whole kirk was praying for him, died so quietly, it was hard to tell the very time o’ his flitting. He was here one minute, the next he was gone. In every cottage there was the feeling of death. He was really a rich man, and left a deal of money to the Ruleson school in Culraine village.”

“Then Norman Ruleson is yet alive?”

“Ay, but his wearisome wife fretted herself into a-grave a good many years ago.”

“And the other Ruleson boys? Are they all alive yet?”

“I cannot tell. They were all great wanderers. Do you remember old Judith Macpherson?”

“To be sure I do.”

“Well, her grandson married the only girl Ruleson, and they have ruled Culraine ever since I can remember. The Captain was very masterful, and after he was ‘retired,’ that was after he was sixty, I think, he lived at Culraine, and Culraine lived as much to his order as if they were the crew of his ship.”

“Where did they live?”

“In the old house, but they built large rooms round about it, and put on another story above all the rooms. They made no change in the old part of the house, except to lift the roof, and insert modern widows. The new rooms were finely papered and painted and furnished, the old living room is still whitewashed, and its uncarpeted floor is regularly scrubbed and sanded. The big hearthstone has no rug to it, and the rack against the wall is yet full of the old china that Mrs. Macpherson’s mother used. All the Macpherson boys and girls were married in that room, just in front of the hearthstone, or on it. I do not remember which. The Captain’s wife insisted on that part of the ceremony.”

“Did you know the Captain’s wife?”

“In a general way, only. She is very well known. She writes books – novels, and poems, and things like that. Some people admire them very much, most of our folks thought them ‘just so-so.’ I can’t say I ever read any of them. My mother believed all books but the Bible doubtful. Domine Trenabie read them, and if you wanted Captain Macpherson’s good will, you had to read them – at least, I have heard that said.”

“Is she writing books yet?”

“Ay, she had one on the market last year. She did not write much while her children were growing up – how could she?”

“How many children has she?”

“I think eleven. I believe one died.”

“What are you telling me?”

“The truth, all the truth, nothing but the truth. She has seven sons, and five girls. The youngest girl died, I heard.”

“She is older than I am. Does she look older?”

“No. She looks younger. Her hair is thinner, as I can remember it, but pretty and bright, and always well dressed. I have seen her in her fisher’s cap in the morning. In the afternoon she wears a rose and a ruffle of white lace, which she calls a cap. Her gowns are long and handsome, and she has beautiful laces, but I never saw any jewelry on her. Colonel Ballister gave her a necklace of small, but exceedingly fine India pearls, but nobody ever saw it on her neck. Perhaps she did not like to put them on. People said he bought them for the girl he hoped to marry when he returned home. She married someone else.”

“Yes, I know. She made a great mistake.”

“Weel, young Angus Ballister made a mistake, too. His wife wouldn’t live anywhere but in Paris, until the estate was like a moth-eaten garment. They had to come home, and she fretted then for California, but there wasn’t money for anywhere but just Ballister. Mebbe there was some double work about the affair, for I ne’er heard tell of any scrimping in Ballister Mansion, and when he came to Culraine he was free as ever with his siller and his promises – and he kept his promises, though some of them were the vera height of foolishness. He was thick as thack with the Macphersons, and the Captain and himsel’ spent long days in Macpherson’s boat, laying out, and pretending to fish.”

“Why ‘pretending’?”

“They never caught anything, if it wasn’t a haddock or a flounder, when the water was crowded with them, and when, as little Bruce Brodie said, ‘the feesh were jumping into the boat, out o’ each other’s way.’”

“Did you ever hear anything of Neil Ruleson, who was a lawyer and went to America?”

“Never until I was a full-grown lassie. Then they came to pay a visit to Mrs. Macpherson. They are very rich. They have money, and houses, and land beyond all likelihood, and just one sickly son to heir it all.”

“Neil Ruleson’s wife was the sister of a Mr. Reginald Rath. Do you remember anything of the Raths?”

“Very little. Rath and Ballister married sisters. Rath’s wife died in Rome, of fever. They had no children, and Rath went to Africa with General Gordon. I do not think he ever came back, for I heard my brother reading in the Glasgow Herald, that the two claimants to the Rath estate were likely to come to an agreement.”

We were silent for a few moments, and then I said, “There is one more person I would like to hear of. He was only a lad, when I knew him, but a very promising one, a grandson of old James Ruleson, and called after him, though adopted by the Domine.”

“I know who you mean, though he is now called Trenabie. There was something in the way of the law, that made it right and best for him to take his adopted father’s name, if he was to heir his property without trouble. The Rulesons thought it fair, and made no opposition, and the lad loved the Domine, and liked to be called after him. So he was ordained under the name of Trenabie, and is known all over England and Scotland as Doctor James Trenabie.”

“Why James? The Domine’s name was Magnus.”

“He would not have his Christian name changed. He said he would rather lose ten fortunes, than touch a letter of his name. James had been solemnly given him in the kirk, and so written down in the Kirk Book, and he hoped in God’s Book also, and he believed it would be against his calling and salvation to alter it. Folks thought it was very grand in him, but his Aunt Christine was no doubt at the bottom o’ his stubbornness. For that matter he minds her yet, as obedient as if he was her bairn.”

“Then he got the Domine’s money?”

“The lion’s share. The village and school of Culraine got a good slice of it, and King’s College, Aberdeen, another slice, but Jamie Ruleson got the lion’s share. He married the daughter of the Greek Professor in King’s, and their first child was a laddie, who was called Magnus. Some are saying that his preaching isna quite orthodox, but rich and poor crowd any church he speaks in, and if you are going to Glasgow, you will hardly be let awa’ without hearing him.”

“How is that?”

“This one and that one will be asking you, ‘Have you heard Doctor Trenabie preach? You’ll never think o’ going awa’ without hearing the man?’”

A little later I heard him. Sarah Lochrigg had not said too much. I saw and heard a preacher by Grace of God – no cold, logical word-sifter, but a prophet inspired by his own evangel. He was full of a divine passion for heavenly things, and his eager, faithful words were illuminated by mystic flashes, just as a dark night is sometimes made wonderful by flashes of electricity. The subject of his sermon was “Our Immortality” and his first proposition startled me.

“Before asking if a man has a future life, let us ask, ‘is he living now?’ The narrow gateway to the cities not made with hands, eternal in the heavens, is Conscience! If there is no Conscience, is there any soul?” From this opening he reasoned of life, death and eternity, with that passionate stress of spirit which we owe entirely to Christianity. The building seemed on fire, and it was difficult even for the reticent Scot to restrain the vehement, impetuous cry of the jailer at old Philippi – “What shall I do to be saved?”

Physically, his appearance was one well-fitting a Man of God. He looked worthy of the name. He was tall, and slenderly built, and when some divinely gracious promise fell from his lips, his face broke up as if there were music in it. He had the massive chin, firm mouth and large, thoughtful gray eyes of his grandfather Ruleson, and the classical air of a thoroughbred ecclesiastic that had distinguished Doctor Trenabie. Surely the two men who so loved him on earth hear the angels speak of him in heaven, and are satisfied.

It was a coincidence that on the following morning, I found, in a Scotch magazine, three verses by his Aunt Christine. In the present stressful time of war and death, they cannot be inappropriate, and at any rate, they must have been among the last dominant thoughts of my heroine. We may easily imagine her, sitting at the open door of the large room which gave her such a wide outlook over the sea, and such a neighborly presence of the village, watching the ghost-like ships in the moonlight, and setting the simple lines either to the everlasting beat of noisy waves, or the still small voice of mighty tides circling majestically around the world:

This was my last message from Christine. For a few years she had sent me a paper or magazine containing a poem or story she thought I would like. Then Sarah Lochrigg sent me a Glasgow paper, with a sorrowful notice of her death in it, declaring that “it could hardly be called death. She just stepped from this life, into the next.” Sarah, in a later letter, added she had been busy in her house all morning and as cheerful and interested about the coming spring cleaning as if she was only twenty years old. About fifteen minutes before twelve she said, “Now, I am tired. I will rest awhile,” and she drew her father’s large chair before the open door. The sea and the boats were spread out before her and the village lay at her feet. She could see the men fishing and the women going about the streets.

“The tide is well in,” she said to her maid, “it will be high tide at three minutes before noon. Call me in about half an hour.”

So she was left alone and I do not doubt it was then she heard that unfathomable call, that voice from some distant world far off yet near, and that her soul instantly answered it. She did not leave this world worn out with pain and sickness. She went without hesitation, without fear, without seeking any human help.

And I tell myself that she doubtless went out with the full tide and that some convoy of the Sea Angels was with her, for His way is in the sea, and His path in the great waters, and His footsteps are not known. She died no death to mourn, for “Blessed are the dead that die in the Lord!”

1

A fisherman’s toast or blessing.