Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

Christine.

Indeed, Christine in this letter did small justice to Margot’s indignant disappointment, and now that hope was over, she made no pretense of hiding her wrong and her sorrow. The Domine saw as soon as he entered the cottage, that Margot was in great trouble, and he more than guessed the reason, for he had been called to the town very early in the day, to meet an old friend on his way to the Maraschal College, where he filled a Professor’s Chair in the medical department. Passing with this friend down the High Street, he had seen Neil with Roberta Rath on his arm, examining leisurely the attractive shop windows, while Reginald trailed at speaking distance behind them.

He kept still further behind. He had no desire to interfere. Neil had never sought his confidence, and he did not know – except through Christine’s partial remarks – what the young man’s private hopes and plans might be. So he listened to Margot’s passionate complaints a little coldly, and she was quick to perceive it.

“You canna understand, Domine, what I suffer. Ye hae never had an ungratefu’ bairn. And I’m feeling for his feyther too – the dear auld man, he’ll be clean heart-broken!”

“No, no, Margot! A good heart that trusts in God, never breaks. It has no cause to break.”

“It is eleven years, Domine, we hae all o’ us been keepin’ oursel’s poor, for Neil’s sake.”

“The last eleven years, Margot, you have missed no good thing. God has been good to you, and to yours. I have seen! I have not forgotten!”

“Just a few kind words would hae paid for a’ we hae pinched and wanted.”

“There has been neither pinch nor want in your home, Margot.”

“Ye don’t ken a’ things, Sir. My man has worked harder than he ought to hae worked.”

“I think you may be mistaken, Margot. James Ruleson trusts in God. Why should he overwork himself?”

“To keep the roof o’er our heads, and find food for the bairns.”

“Nay, nay, Margot! Prayer, and lawful work, keep the door safe, and the table spread.”

“Oh Domine! If you feel that your love is slighted – that the bairn you love mair than yoursel’ lightlies ye; if you feel that he’s ’shamed o’ you!” And Margot covered her face, and her words were lost in heart-breaking sobs.

“Margot, you must cease weeping. Will it do you any good to kill yourself? What will you say to your Maker in such case?”

“I willna be feared to say all that is in my heart to Him. He knows a mither’s heart, and the griefs it tholes and carries. I canna expect you to know how love feels when it is scorned, and made little o’.”

“I know something of that same sorrow, Margot. I gave the love of my life to one who scorned it. Only God knew my sorrow, but He was sufficient for my comfort. There is only one way of conquering wrongs against love, Margot.”

Margot did not speak, and after a moment’s pause, he asked, “Do you want to know that way?”

“No, Sir. If it is your way, I’m no able to follow it.”

“Suppose you try. You think your youngest son has treated you badly?”

“Ay, I’m sure o’ it, and he’s treated his feyther and his brothers badly, and his one sister worse than a’. How can folk forget injuries that tread love under feet? They canna do it.”

“They can. Do you want to know how? Do you want to know how I did it?”

“I couldna walk in your shoon, Sir. They’re o’er big for me.”

“Tell Mither, Sir. Tell her, she’ll maybe find it easier than she thinks; and maybe I could help her;” and Christine went and stood by her mother’s chair, and drew her mother’s head close to her breast, and kissed her softly, as she whispered, “Ask the Domine what to do wi’ wrangs ye canna bear, and canna pay back?”

“That’s the sair part, Sir. Christine has touched the raw. If any man or woman in the village scorns or wrangs me, I can gie them as gude as they send – words or blows – and I wad do it! Yes, I would!”

“Have you given up your kirk membership, Margot?”

“No, Sir, I hae done naething yet, requiring me to do sae; but it’s hard saying what I might be driven to, if somebody doesna mak’ Jess Morrison quit meddling wi’ my family affairs – the lying hizzy!”

“Margot! Margot! My friend Margot! You astonish me, you trouble me!”

“Weel, Domine, I’m very sorry to trouble you. I wad rather trouble the hale village than you. What do you want me to do?”

“Just to try for one month, my plan of treating any injustice, or injury, I receive.”

“Weel then, what is your plan? I’m no promising to do what I’m vera sure is far oot o’ my way, but if you had been injured on every side o’ your heart, as I hae been, what would you do?”

“When I receive an injury, Margot, I think it calmly over, and I am sure to find some excuse for part of it – the rest I forgive.”

“There’s nae excuse in Neil’s case, Sir.”

“Yes, there are several. These Rath’s promise much for his future. He may even be in love with Miss Rath, and a man in love isna a responsible creature. You hae told me, in the course of years, how much Norman’s wife troubled you, and Norman could not prevent her. I have heard the same kind of story about Robert’s and Allan’s, and Alexander’s wives. Men do not seem to be responsible, when they are seeking some woman for a wife. Take this into your thoughts, anent Neil. There were also unhappy money considerations. Evidently Neil is not ready to pay Christine’s ninety pounds back, and he does not like to be questioned about it. He would rather keep out of the way. In both these cases, it is not Neil. It is first the girl, then the money. He does not despise you, he is only too considerate about Miss Rath. In the case of the money, he is perhaps counting on its use for his advancement in life, and he would rather not talk about it. He does not hate or scorn his own people, he is only looking out for his future love, and his future living. That is such a common and natural feeling, we need not wonder and weep over it. There must be other excuses to make, if I knew all about Neil’s life and hopes, and for the rest of the faults against him – forgive them, as God forgives your faults against His long suffering love and patience.”

“Mebbe that is the right way, but – ”

“Right! Say that word to yourself, Margot. Say it till it rings like a shout in your soul, till you feel it in your hand like a drawn sword. It is a conquering word. Say it till your weak heart grows strong.”

“Mither will feel better in a few days, Sir.”

“To be sure she will. Neither joy nor sorrow leaves us where it found us. Poor Neil!”

“Why ‘poor Neil,’ Sir?”

“Because he cannot see beyond his limit, and his limit is self, and selfishness is utter loss. They conquer who endure. Live it down. Deserting our own is a cruel, silent treason even if they deserve it. It is a sin that our souls are ashamed of. Margot, your weakness tonight came o’er you in a moment when you were slack in Faith. You are naturally and spiritually a brave woman, Margot. What have you to fear?”

“I dinna want the lad I hae nursed at my breast to be ashamed o’ me – that is my fear, Domine. I dinna want to lose his love.”

“Does a man ever forget the mother who bore him? I can’t believe it. When all other loves fade, that is green. It is nearly fifty years since I bid my mother ‘good-by’ for ever in this life. She is the dearest and sweetest mother to me yet. I remember her eyes, the touch of her lips, the soft caress of her hands, as if I had seen her yesterday. A man, however wicked, is not beyond hope, who yet loves his mother. Neil is not a bad boy. He will love you to the end.”

“I fear, I fear, Domine, that – ”

“No! You do not fear. You have nothing to fear. There was a noted preacher and poet, who shall tell you what your fear is. His name was Crashaw, and he was an Englishman, who died just about two hundred years ago and he says to a fearful soul:

“There is no storm but thisOf your own cowardice,That braves you out.You are the storm that mocksYourself, you are the rocksOf your own doubt.Besides this fear of danger, there’sNo danger here,And they that here fear danger,Do deserve their fear.”

“Ay, that’s what you ca’ poetry. I dinna understand a word o’ it, but I can mind that David said, he didna fear, even in the dead-mirk-dale; but it’s a far-back thought to King David, and when a mither is angry at her bairn, she feels as if the Lord, too, was like to lose sight o’ her, and that earth and heaven are baith a’ wrang.”

“Well, then, Margot, when you feel as if the Lord was like to lose sight o’ you, then you canna lose sight o’ the Lord. Then, in the words of your Covenanters’ Psalms, you be to cry out: ‘How lang, O Lord! Will ye mind me nae mair? How long will ye hap yer face frae me?’ And then, Margot, you mind how the few verses of doubt and fear, end – ‘the Lord he’s wrought a’ things neiborlie for me’. Now, Margot, I am not going to preach to you. Your own leal heart can do that. I will just say goodnight with one verse from that same dear old book o’ psalms – ‘Let the words o’ my mouth, an’ the thought o’ my heart, be for pleasure in yer sight, O Lord, my strength, and my hame bringer.’ I leave blessing with you.”

“You werna as kind as you should hae been to the Domine, Mither. He tried to comfort you,” said Christine.

“That was in the way o’ his duty. What does he know, puir fellow! anent a mither’s love or sorrow?”

“I’m glad feyther hes wee Jamie for his comfort.”

“Ay, but Jamie doesna comfort me, in the place o’ Neil.”

“You hae me, Mither. Dinna forget Christine.”

“Would I do that? Never! Christine is worth a’ the lads in Scotland. They marry – and forget.”

“The Domine says he loves his mother today, better than ever, and her dead near fifty years.”

“The Domine is a wonder, and he ne’er put a wife in her place. I hope your feyther didna go to the toun today. Where has Jamie been?”

“He went out with feyther, this morning. I think they went to the boats, but I canna weel say. They ought to be hame by this hour. I wonder what is keeping them sae late?”

“Weel, Christine, the trouble hes gone by, this time, and we willna ca’ it back. If your feyther didna come across the lad i’ the town, it will mebbe be best to let him get back to the Maraschal without remark or recollection.”

“To be sure, Mither.”

“I wonder what’s keeping your feyther? It is too late, and too cold, for Jamie to be out.”

“I hear their voices, Mither. They’re coming up the hill. Stir the fire into a blaze o’ welcome. Just listen to the laddie laughing – and feyther laughing too. Whatever has happened to them?”

James Ruleson and the lad at his side came into the cottage the next moment. The light of the laugh was yet on their faces, and oh, what a happy stir their advent made in the cozy, firelit room! Margot forgot she had been crying and complaining, she was helping her man take off his heavy coat, and Christine was helping the child, who was in a state of great excitement:

“I hae been to the circus!” he cried. “Christine! Gran’mither! I hae been to the circus! It was wonderful! I did not want to leave it. I wanted to stay always there. I want to go tomorrow. Gran’feyther! Will you take me tomorrow? Say yes! Do say yes!”

“Why, James!” cried Margot, “I never heard tell o’ the like! Hae ye lost your senses, gudeman?”

“No, I think I hae just found them. I am sair-hearted, because I didna send all the lads there. Let us hae a cup o’ tea, and we will tell you how we spent the day.”

Then there was a ten minutes hurry, and at the end a well spread table, and four happy faces round it; and as Margot handed Ruleson his big tea cup, she said, “Now, James Ruleson, tell us what you and the lad hae been after today, that took you into such a sinfu’ place as a circus. You’ll hae to face the Domine on the matter. You, a ruling elder, in a circus! I’m mair than astonished! I’m fairly shocked at ye! And I’m feared it was a premeditated sin. And ye ken what the Domine thinks o’ premeditated sins.”

“It was far from a sin o’ any kind, gudewife. Jamie and I were on our way to the boat, for a few hours’ fishing, when we met a lad wi’ a note from Finlay, saying he wanted a few words o’ advice from me, and I took a sudden thought o’ a day’s rest, and a bit o’ pleasure wi’ little Jamie. Sae, to the town we went, and first o’ all to Finlay’s, and I had a long talk wi’ him, about some railway shares he owns, on my advice; and they hae turned out sae weel, he wanted me to tak’ part o’ the profit. I wouldna do that, but I let him gie twenty pounds towards the school fund.”

“You might hae put that twenty in your ain pouch, gudeman, and nae fault in the same. You are too liberal anent the school. Our ain lads get naething from it.”

“Jamie will hae the gude o’ it, and lots o’ Culraine lads and lasses until they get a better one. Weel, so be it! After Finlay and I had finished our crack, I took Jamie to Molly Stark’s, and we had a holiday dinner.”

“Chicken pie! Custard pudding! Strawberry tarts! Nuts and raisins! And a big orange! Grandmither! Oh, it was beautiful! Beautiful!”

“Then we walked about the town a bit, and I saw a big tent, and men playing music before it, and when we got close pictures of animals and of horses, and men riding. And Jamie saw many little lads going in, especially one big school, and he said, ‘Grandfeyther, tak’ me in too!’ And I took counsel wi’ my ain heart for a minute, and it said to me, ‘Tak’ the lad in,’ and so I did.”

“And now you’re blaming yoursel’?”

“I am not. I think I did right. There was neither sound nor sight o’ wrang, and the little laddie went wild wi’ pleasure; and to tell the vera truth, I was pleased mysel’ beyond a’ my thoughts and expectations. I would like to tak’ you, Margot, and Christine too. I would like it weel. Let us a’ go the morn’s night.”

“I hae not lost my senses yet, James. Me go to a circus! Culraine wad ne’er get o’er the fact. It wad be a standing libel against Margot Ruleson. As for Christine!”

“I wad like weel to go wi’ Feyther.”

“I’m fairly astonished at you, Christine! Lassie, the women here would ne’er see you again, they wad feel sae far above ye. I’m not the keeper o’ your feyther’s gude name, but I hae a charge o’er yours, and it is clear and clean impossible, for you to go to a circus.”

“If Feyther goes – ”

“Your feyther hasna heard the last o’ his spree yet. To think o’ him leaving the narrow road. Him, near saxty years old! The kirk session on the matter will be a notable one. Elders through the length and breadth o’ Scotland will be takin’ sides. Dear me, James Ruleson, that you, in your auld age, should come to this!” and then Margot laughed merrily and her husband and Christine understood she was only joking.

“And you’ll maybe go wi’ us all some afternoon, Margot?”

“Na, na, James! I’ll not gie Jess Morrison, and the like o’ her, any occasion for their ill tongues. They’d just glory in Margot Ruleson, Elder Ruleson’s wife, going to the circus. I wouldn’t be against going mysel’ I’d like to go, but I wouldn’t gie them the pleasure o’ tossing my gude name on their ill-natured tongues.”

“I saw Peter Brodie there, and his three lads, and his daughter Bella.”

“Weel, James, tak’ the little laddie again, if so you wish. Peter will stand wi’ you, and he’s the real ruling elder. But Christine is different. It lets a woman down to be talked about, whether she is right, or wrang.”

Then Jamie was allowed to give his version of the wonder and the joy of a circus, and the last cups of tea were turned into some glorious kind of a drink, by the laughter and delight his descriptions evoked. Then and there it was resolved that his grandfather must take him again on the following day, and with this joyous expectation in his heart, the child at last fell asleep.

When Ruleson and his wife were alone, Margot noticed that her man’s face became very somber and thoughtful. He was taking his bed-time smoke by the fireside, and she waited beside him, with her knitting in her hands, though she frequently dropped it. She was sure he had something on his mind, and she waited patiently for its revealing. At length he shook the ashes from his pipe, and stood it in its proper corner of the hob, then going to the window, he looked out and said,

“It’s fair and calm, thank God! Margot, I saw Neil today.” As he spoke, he sat down, and looked at her, almost sorrowfully.

“What did he say for himsel’?”

“I didna speak to him. I was in Finlay’s store, at the back o’ it, whar Finlay hes his office. A young man came into the store, and Finlay got up and went to speak to him. It was Rath, and when he went awa’, Finlay called me, and showed me a little group on the sidewalk. They were Rath and his sister, our Neil and Provost Blackie’s son.”

“Our Provost Blackie’s son?”

“Just sae. And Neil and him were as well met and friendly as if they had been brought up in the same cottage. The four o’ them stood talking a few minutes, and then Neil offered his arm to Miss Rath, and led the young lady to a carriage waiting for them. She smiled and said something, and Neil turned and bowed to Rath and young Blackie, and then stepped into the carriage and took his seat beside the lady, and they drove off together.”

“Gudeman, you arena leeing to me?”

“I am telling you the plain evendown truth, Margot.”

“Did he see you?”

“No. I keepit oot o’ his way.”

“Whatna for?”

“I needna say the words.”

“I’ll say them for you – you thought he would be ashamed o’ you.”

“Ay, he might hae been. Dinna cry, woman. Dear, dear woman, dinna cry! It’s our ain fault – our ain fault. If we had stood firm for the pulpit, if we had said, ‘you must be either a preacher or a schoolmaster,’ this wouldna hae been. We were bent on makin’ a gentleman o’ him, and now he prefers gentlemen to fishermen – we ought to hae expectit it.”

“It is cruel, shamefu’, ungratefu’ as it can be!”

“Ay, but the lad is only seeking his ain good. If he still foregathered wi’ our rough fisher-lads, we wouldn’t like it. And we would tell him sae.”

“He might hae found time to rin down, and see us for an hour or twa, and gie us the reasons for this, and that.”

“He looked like he was courting the young lady – and we know of auld times, wife, that when our lads began courting, we hed to come after. I was wrang to gie in to his studying the law. Studying the gospels, he wad hae learned that there are neither rich nor poor, in God’s sight. We gave the lad to God, and then we took him awa’ frae God, and would mak’ a lawyer and a gentleman o’ him. Weel, as far as I can see, he is going to be a’ we intended. We are getting what we hae worked for. There’s nane to blame but oursel’s.”

This reasoning quite silenced Margot. She considered it constantly, and finally came to her husband’s opinion. Then she would not talk about Neil, either one way, or the other, and it soon fell out that the lad’s name was never mentioned in the home where he had once ruled almost despotically. Only Christine kept her faith in Neil. She wrote him long letters constantly. She told him all that was going on in the village, all about his father and mother, the Domine and the school house. She recalled pleasant little incidents of the past, and prefigured a future when she would see him every day. And she seldom named little Jamie. She divined that Neil was jealous of the position the child had gained in the household. And Christine was no trouble-maker. Her letters were all messages of peace and good will, and without any advice from her father she had personally come to very much the same conclusion that he had arrived at. “There has been a great mistake,” she said softly to herself, “and we be to mak’ the best o’ it. It isna beyond God’s power to sort it right yet.”

So Neil was seldom named unless a letter came from him, which was not a frequent occurrence. The boxes filled with home delicacies were no longer sent, nor was their absence noted, nor their presence requested. Neil was making money as a coach to younger and wealthier students. He now dined at the best hotel, and had a very good breakfast in his comfortable rooms. But Christine felt that the breaking of this tie of “something good to eat” was a serious thing. Home was a long way further off to Neil, when the motherly baskets of homemade dainties ceased coming to him, and all Christine’s apologies – whether they touched his mother’s ill health, or his own prosperity’s making them unnecessary, did not mend the matter. They were just common bread and meat, mere physical things, but their want was heart-hunger, and doubt and suspicion, in place of the love and pleasure they had always caused.

Generally, however, as one interest in life dies out, another springs up, and the school building, and the little laddie kept the Ruleson family happily busy. Ruleson had been asked to superintend the building and he did the work with a completeness which was natural to him. He looked over every load of stone, and saw that the blocks of granite were well fitting, and perfect in color. He examined all the mortar made, lest the builders follow modern habits and put too much sand among the lime. He returned as unworthy many pounds of nails, which were either too short, or too slight, for the purposes for which they were intended; and the slating for the roof was a thing he did not trust to anyone but James Ruleson. So the school house and his fishing kept him busy and happy, and Margot and Christine looked at him with wonder and pleasure. He was always smiling, and always listening to Jamie, who was chattering at his side, whenever he was on land.

So life at Culraine pursued the even tenor of its way, until the middle of March, when the school was opened for a short quarter until the herring should come on in July. The building was by no means finished, but the walls were up, the windows in, the slate roof on, and the desks and forms in place. The master’s room, the painting, plastering, and decoration were untouched. Ruleson thought they could be attended to during the herring fishing, and the school formally opened in September.

To a man quite unaccustomed to business, these were tremendous, yet delightful responsibilities; and Ruleson lived between his boat and the school. When he was on land, Jamie was always at his side. Hitherto Ruleson had been noted for his reticence. Even among such a silent race as the Fife fishers his silence was remarkable. He had held his peace even from good, but the child always chattering at his side had taught him to talk. Jamie’s thirst for knowledge was insatiable, he was always wanting to know something or other, and the inquisitive “why” was constantly on his lips. Few people could remember James Ruleson’s laughing, now his big guffaw constantly carried on its echo the little lad’s shrill treble laugh. Ruleson had many amiable qualities unused and undeveloped that the boy brought out in many different ways. In his little grandson’s company he was born again, and became as a little child. This was an actual and visible conversion. The whole village testified to this wonderful new birth.

On the fourteenth of March the dream of his heart came true. He saw the little children come running through the sand hills, and over the heather, to the school. From far and near, they came, wearing their best clothes, and happy as if it was a holiday. He listened to them reciting, after their teachers, a morning prayer. He heard them learning in class together the alphabet, and the first lessons in numbers and addition, a lesson which all acquired rapidly by some secret natural process. For if the teacher asked how many two and two made, he had not to wait a moment for a correct answer from every baby mouth. It amazed Ruleson, until he remembered that no one had ever taught him to count. Through generations of clever bargaining mothers, had this ability become a natural instinct. The Domine thought it might have done so.

In some way or other, the school made Christine’s life very busy. She was helping weary mothers make little dresses, and little breeches, or doing a bit of cleaning for them, or perhaps cooking a meal, or nursing the baby for an hour. She was mending or weaving nets, she was redding up her own home. She was busy with the washing or ironing, or hearing Jamie’s lessons, or helping her mother with the cooking. Her hands were never idle, and there was generally a smile on her face, a song on her lips, or a pleasant word for everyone within the sound of her cheerful voice.

She had also her own peculiar duties. There were long and frequent letters from Cluny to answer, and occasionally one from Angus Ballister, the latter always enclosing a pretty piece of lace, or a trifle of some kind, special to the city he was in. Ballister’s letters troubled her, for they were written still in that tone of “it might have been,” with a certain faint sense of reproach, as if it was her fault, that it had not been. This was so cleverly insinuated, that there was nothing for her to deny, or to complain of. She wished he would not write, she wished he would cease sending her any reminders of “days forever gone.” His sentimental letters were so evidently the outcome of a cultivated heart-breaking disappointment, that they deeply offended her sense of truth and sincerity.