Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

“Then they would be knowing wha’ they were buying for?”

“That goes without the saying. I didna hear onyone say the doll was for Polly Craig.”

“Nor I, but Polly’s mother hasna been to hold, nor to bind, anent the infant’s progress. The hale village is weary o’ the story o’ Polly’s remarkable intimacy wi’ her alphabet and spelling. The bairn may be a’ her mither says, but I’m thinking she’s getting her abilities too aerly to be reliable. Weel, then, who gets the next prize?”

“Willie Tamsen.”

“I dinna ken the Tamsens.”

“They’re nice folk, from the south o’ Fife. Willie is seven years auld, or thereby. He’s clever, the schoolmaster says, in figures and geography, and weel-behaved, and quiet-like. The Domine says he’s first in his catechism class, and vera attentive to a’ that concerns his lessons – a good little lad, wi’ an astonishing power o’ ken in him.”

“Weel, what will you gie sae remarkable a bairn?”

“A gold guinea.”

“A gold guinea! I ne’er heard o’ such wild extravagance. It’s fair sinfu’. Whate’er will a lad o’ seven years auld do wi’ a guinea? Buy sweeties wi’ it. I dinna think the Domine can sanction a bit o’ nonsense like that.”

“I’m maist sure the Domine gave the guinea out o’ his ain pocket. The Tamsens are vera poor, and the laddie is the warst-dressed lad i’ the village, and he is to go and get a nice suit o’ claes for himsel’ wi’ it. The Domine knew what he was doing. The laddie will be twice as bright, when he gets claes for his little arms and legs.”

“Weel, I hae naething against Willie Tamsen. He never meddled wi’ my flowers, or stole my berries. I hope he’ll get the claes. And there was to be three prizes?”

“Ay, one for the lads and lasses from eight to eleven years old, that takes in a large pairt o’ the school. The bigger lads and lasses will come in the autumn, when the herrin’ hae been, and gane.”

“I’m not asking anything anent that class. I dinna envy the schoolmaster and mistress that will hae them to manage. They’ll hae their hands fu’, or my name isna Margot Ruleson. Wha will get the third prize?”

“Our Jamie. And he has weel won it. Jamie isna a lad o’ the common order. The Domine says he’ll mak’ the warld sit up and listen to him, when he comes to full stature.”

“The Domine is as silly anent the bairn, as you are. After my ain lad, Neil, I’m expecting naething oot o’ the Nazareth o’ Culraine. We were a’ going to shout o’er Neil Ruleson – weel, we hae had our cry, and dried our eyes, and hae gane on our way again.”

“Neil has done weel – considering.”

“Gudeman, we hae better drop that ‘consideration.’ I was talking o’ our Jamie. What are they going to gie our second wonder o’ a bairn?”

“The maist beautiful book you ever saw – a big copy of Robinson Crusoe fu’ o’ pictures, and bound in blue wi’ gold lettering. The bairn will hae wonder after wonder wi’ it.”

“Did you buy the book?”

“Not I. What mak’s you ask that information?”

“Naething. Jamie should hae had something he could hae halfed wi’ Christine. She has spent the best o’ her hours teaching the bairn. Few or nane o’ the lads and lasses would hae the help o’ any hame lessons. It was really Christine put Neil Ruleson among her Majesty’s lawyers.”

“Weel, then, she’ll do her pairt in putting James Ruleson among the ministers o’ the everlasting God. That will be a great honor, and pay her handsome for a’ her love and labor.”

“Gudeman, ministers arena honored as they were when we were young. If preaching were to go oot o’ fashion, we – ”

“What are you saying, Margot Ruleson? The preacher’s license is to the ‘end o’ the warld.’ The Word o’ the Lord must be gien to men, as long as men people the earth.”

“Vera weel! The Word o’ the Lord is in everybody’s hands the now; and everyone is being taught to read it. Maist folk can read it as weel as the minister.”

“The Word must be made flesh! Nae book can tak’ the place o’ the face-to-face argument. Preaching will last as long as men live.”

“Weel, weel, I’m not going to get you to arguing. You arena in the clubroom, and I’m too tired to go into speculations wi’ you. I’m obliged to you, gudeman, for the information you hae imparted. I wad, however, advise the Domine to gie his next secret into the keeping o’ some woman, say mysel’. Women arena sae amiable as men, and whiles they can keep a secret, which is a thing impossible to men-folk.”

“If they are married, I’ll admit there are difficulties.”

“Gude night, and gude dreams to you, James Ruleson.”

“Ye ken weel, Margot, that I never dream.”

“Sae you lose the half o’ your life, James. I’m sorry for you. I shall dream o’ the three happy bairns, and their prizes. Say, you might hae picked out another lassie; twa lads to one lass is o’erganging what’s fair. I’m awa’ to sleep – you needna answer.”

It was trying to the village that Sabbath had to come and go, before the school examination. But everything waited for arrives in its time. And this was a Monday worth waiting for. It was a perfect June day, and the sea, and the sun, and the wind held rejoicing with the green earth and the mortals on it. If there was envy, or jealousy, or bad temper among the villagers, they forgot it, or put it aside for future consideration. Everyone was in his best clothes, the boys and girls being mostly in white, and the little place looked as if there were a great wedding on hand. Christine had made an attempt to decorate the room a little. The boys cut larch boughs and trailing branches, the men loaned the flags of the boats, the women gave the few flowers from their window pots, and strips of garden, and Margot, a little sadly, cut her roses, and gave permission to Christine to add to them a few laburnum branches, now drooping with their golden blossoms.

The room looked well. The flowers and the flags did not hide the globe and the maps. And the blackboard kept its look of authority, though a branch of laburnum bent over it. The schoolmaster was playing a merry Fantasia as the company gathered, but at a given signal from Christine he suddenly changed it to the children’s marching song, and the rapid, orderly manner in which it led each class to its place was a wonderful sight to the men and women who had never seen children trained to obedience by music.

The Domine opened the examination by reading, in the intense silence that followed the cessation of the music, three verses from the eighteenth chapter of St. Luke:

“And they brought unto him infants that he would touch them, but when his disciples saw it, they rebuked them.

“But Jesus called them unto him, and said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of God.

“‘Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the Kingdom of God as a little child, shall in no wise enter therein.’”

Then the schoolmistress touched a hand bell and a crowd of little children, none over five years old, gathered round her. Contrary to the usual practice of children, their behavior and recitals were better than usual, and laughter and hand-clapping followed all their simple efforts. Polly Craig was their evident leader, and when she had told a charming story about a little girl who would do what she ought not to do, the records of the class were read by the Domine, and the prize awarded to Polly.

Willie Tamsen and Jamie Ruleson’s classes were treated in a similar way, and were equally successful in their recitations and equally delighted with their gifts. Now, the real joy in giving gifts is found in giving them to children, for the child heart beats long after we think it has outgrown itself. The perfect charm of this gathering lay in the fact that men and women became for a few hours little children again. It was really a wonderful thing to see the half-grown girls, the married women, and even old Judith Macpherson, crowding round Polly to admire the waxen beauty and the long fair curls of her prize doll.

After the school exercises the adults slowly scattered, sauntering home with their wives, and carrying their babies as proudly as Polly carried her new treasure. Truly both men and women receive the kingdom of God and Love, when they become as little children. The children remained for two hours longer in the school room. For the entertainment of their parents the youngest ones had danced some of those new dances just at that period introduced into Scotland, called polkas and mazurkas, and now, to please themselves, they began a series of those mythic games which children played in the world’s infancy, and which, thank God, have not yet perished from off the face of the earth. “How many miles to Babylon?” “Hide and seek,” “In and out,” “Blind man’s buff,” and so forth, and in this part of the entertainment, everything and everyone depended upon Christine. Mothers, going home, called to her, “Christine, look after my bairn,” and then went contentedly away.

They might contentedly do so, for whoever saw Christine Ruleson that afternoon, in the midst of those forty or fifty children, saw something as near to a vision of angels, as they were likely to see on this earth. She stood among them like some divine mother. A little one three years old was on her right arm. It pulled her earrings, and rumpled her hair, and crushed her lace collar, and she only kissed and held it closer. A little lad with a crooked spine, and the seraphic face which generally distinguishes such sufferers, held her tightly by her right hand. Others clung to her dress, and called her name in every key of love and trust. She directed their games, and settled their disputes, and if anything went wrong, put it right with a kiss.

The Domine watched her for ten or fifteen minutes, then he went slowly up the hill. “Where at a’ is Christine, Domine?” asked Margot. “I’m wanting her sairly.”

“Christine is too busy to meddle with, Margot. She’s doing God’s best work – ministering to little children. As I saw her half-an-hour ago, she was little lower than the angels. I’m doubting if an angel could be lovelier, or fuller of life and love, and every sweet influence.”

“Christine is a handsome lass, nae doubt o’ that, but our women are all o’ them heritage handsome. I’m doubting if Eve, being a Jewess, could be worth evening wi’ us.”

“Eve was not a Jewess. She was God’s eldest daughter, Margot.”

“Then God’s eldest daughter hasna a very gude character. She has been badly spoken of, ever since the warld began. And I do hope my Christine will behave hersel’ better than Eve did – if all’s true that is said anent her.”

“Christine is a good girl, Margot. If little children love a woman, and she loves them, the love of God is there. Margot! Margot! God comes to us in many ways, but the sweetest and tenderest of all of them, is when he sends Jesus Christ by the way of the cradle.”

All’s well that ends well. If this be true, the first session of Culraine school was a great success. It had brought an entirely new, and very happy estimate of a father’s and a mother’s duty to their children. It had even made them emulous of each other, in their care and attention to the highest wants of childhood.

The whole village was yet talking of the examination when the herring came. Then every woman went gladly to her appointed post and work, and every man – rested and eager for labor – hailed the news with a shout of welcome. Peter Brodie’s big Sam brought it very early one lovely summer morning, and having anchored his boat, ran through the sleeping village shouting – “Caller Herrin’! In Culraine Bay!”

The call was an enchantment. It rang like a trumpet through the sleeping village, and windows were thrown up, and doors flung open, and half-dressed men were demanding in stentorian voices, “Where are the fish, Sam?”

“Outside Culraine Bay,” he answered, still keeping up his exultant cry of “Caller Herrin’!” and in less than half an hour men were at work preparing for the amazing physical strain before them. Much was to do if they were to cast their nets that evening, and the streets were soon busy with men and lads carrying nets and other necessities to the boats. It was up with the flag on every boat in commission, for the fishing, and this day’s last preparations excited the place as if it were some great national holiday. The women were equally full of joyful business. They had to cook the breakfast, but immediately after it were all in the packing and curing sheds. You would have been sure they were keeping holiday. Pleasant greetings, snatches of song, encouraging cries to the men struggling down to the boats with the leaded nets, shouts of hurry to the bewildered children, little flytings at their delays, O twenty different motives for clamor and haste were rife, and not unpleasant, because through all there was that tone of equal interest and good fellowship that can never be mistaken.

Margot had insisted on a visit to her special shed, to see whether all was in readiness for her special labor, but Christine had entreated her to wait for her return from the town, where she was going for orders. She had left her mother with the clear understanding that she would not risk the walk and the chatter and the clatter until the following day. But as soon as she was alone, Margot changed her intentions. “I must make the effort,” she said to herself. “I’m feared of the pain, that’s all about it.” So she made the effort, and found out that there was something more than fear to be reckoned with.

Christine brought home astonishing orders, and Margot’s face flushed with pride and energy. “I’ll not let that order slip through my fingers,” she cried, “I’m going to the kippering, and what I canna do, Christine can manage, following my say-so.”

This change in Margot’s work was the only shadow on that year’s herring-tide. It was a change, however, that all felt would not be removed. Margot said, with a little laugh, that she was teaching her lassie how to make a living, or how to help some gudeman to do it. “And I have a fine scholar,” she soon began to add. “Christine can now kipper a herring as weel as her mother, and why not? She has seen the kippering done, ever since she wore ankle tights.”

“And you will be glad of a bit rest to yourself, Margot, no doubt,” was the general answer.

“Ay, I have turned the corner of womanhood, and I’m wearing away down the hillside of life. I hae been in a dowie and desponding condition for a year or mair.”

“Christine is clever with business, and folks do say she has a full sense of the value of money.”

“To be sure, Nancy. There’s no harm in the like of that. Her feyther came from Aberdeen folk, and it’s weel recognized that Aberdeen folk look at both sides of a penny.”

“Christine is a clever lass, and good likewise, we were all saying that, a while ago.”

“Weel, some folk, out of bad taste, or a natural want of good sense, may think different; but there – that’s enough on the subject of Christine. Her feyther is gey touchy anent Christine, and it will be as weel to let that subject alone.”

So, day after day, Margot sat in a chair at her daughter’s side, and Christine filled the big orders as her mother instructed her. And they were well filled, in good time, and the outcome was beyond all expectation. Yet Christine looked sadly at the money, and Margot turned her head away, to hide the unbidden tears in her eyes, as she said:

“It’s all yours, lassie. I’ll not touch a farthing of it. You have fairly won it. It will happen help Neil’s deficiencies. Oh, my dear lassie! Mither has done her last kippering! I feel it.”

“Then I’ll kipper for you, Mither, as long as we both live. The hill is now o’er much for you – and the noisy women, and skirling bairns! Christine will go to Mother’s shed, and Mother will bide at hame, and red up the house, and have a cup of tea ready for hungry folk, as they come weary hame.”

And Margot let it go at that, but she was as she said, “dowie and despondent.” Ruleson begged her to go with him to Edinburgh, and get the advice of a good physician, but Margot would not listen to any entreaty.

“I’ll no do any such thing,” she answered. “Not likely! The Domine can gie the pain a setback, and if God wants me here, He’ll keep me here, sick or well, and if He doesna want me here, I’m willing to go where He does want me.” From this position Margot was not movable, and now that the herring fishing was over, there did not appear to be any reason for making her restless and unhappy. So she naturally drifted into that household position, where everyone took care not to tire, and not to vex, grandmother.

One morning in the early days of October, Christine was sitting sewing, and Margot was making shortcake. They had been talking of Neil and wondering where he was.

“I’m thinking it is whole o’ a month, since we heard from the lad,” said Margot.

“I dare say it’s mair, Mother; and that letter was from some strange French seaside place, and he was thinking that they wouldna stay there very long. He has mebbe gane further awa’ than France.”

“I wouldn’t wonder – setting a young man traveling is like setting a ball rolling down a hill. Baith o’ them are hard to turn back.”

Margot had scarcely finished speaking, when Sam Brodie opened the door. He had been to the town post office and seen, in the list of uncalled-for letters, a letter addressed to Christine, so he had brought it along. It proved to be from Neil, and had been posted in Rome. Christine was familiar with that postmark, and it still had power at least to raise her curiosity. Neil’s handwriting, however, spoke for itself, and before she broke the seal, she said, “Why, Mither! It is from Neil.”

“I thought that, as soon as Sam came in. I was dreaming of a letter from Neil, last night. I dinna dream for naething. Make haste with the news – good or bad – read it all. I want to hear the warst of it.” Then Christine read aloud the following letter:

Dear Christine,

I want you to tell Mother that I married Miss Rath in Paris on the fifth of September ult. We were afraid that Reginald was going to interfere, so we settled the matter to prevent quarreling – which, you know, is against my nature. Reginald’s opposition was quite unlooked for and, I must say, very ill-natured and discouraging. If there is anything in a man’s life he should have full liberty and sympathy in, it is his marriage. I dare say Mother will have some complaint or other to make. You must talk to her, until she sees things reasonably. We were married in the Protestant Episcopal Church in Paris, very quietly – only the necessary witnesses – and came on here at once. I disapproved so highly of Reginald’s behavior at this important period of my life, and of some insulting things he said to me, that I have resolved not to have any more relations with him. After all I have done for him, it is most disheartening. My wife feels her brother’s conduct very much, but she has perfect trust in me. Of course, if I had been married in Scotland, I would have had my friends’ presence, but I am quite sure that my best interests demanded an immediate marriage. We shall be home in a month, and then I propose to open a law office in Glasgow in my own name. I shall do better without impedimenta like Reginald Rath. I trust to you to make all comfortable at home. I shall desire to bring my wife to see my mother. I am proud of Roberta. She is stylish, and has a good deal more money than I expected. I shall not require Reginald’s money or patronage, they would now be offensive to my sense of honor and freedom. Give my love to my father and mother, and remember I am

Always your loving brother,Neil.

There was a few moments’ dead silence, and Christine did not lift her eyes from the paper in her hand, until a passionate exclamation from Margot demanded her notice.

“Oh, Mither, Mither!” she cried, “dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick; it’s Neil, our Neil, that you are calling a scoundrel.”

“And I’ll call a scoundrel by no ither name. It’s gude enough for him.”

“We were talking one hour ago about him marrying Miss Rath, and you took to the idea then. Now that he has done so, what for are you railing at him?”

“I’m not railing at him for marrying the lass, she’s doubtless better than he deserves. It’s the way that he’s done the business – the mean, blackguardly way he’s done the business, that shames and angers me. Dod! I would strike him on the face, if he was near my hand. I’m shamed o’ him! He’s a black disgrace to his father and mother, and to all the kind he came from.”

“Generally speaking, Mother, folks would say that Neil had done weel to himsel’ and praise him for it.”

“Who are you alluding to? Dinna call the name ‘Neil’ in my hearing. Scoundrel is gude enough to specify a scoundrel. I hae counts against him, and he must clear himself, before I’ll pass his christened name o’er my lips.”

“What are your counts against him? Maybe I can speak a word to explain them.”

“Not you! First, he has, beyond a’ doubt, deceived the lass’s brother. He should hae spoken to him first of all, and the young man wouldna hae said insulting words if there wasna cause for the same.”

“The lady was of full age, and sae had the right to please herself, Mither.”

“She had not. She was as bad as Neil, or she would have sought her brother’s consent.”

“Perhaps Neil wouldna let her tell her brither.”

“That’s like enough. He has got the girl, and that means he has got full control o’ her money. Then he breaks his promise to go into partnership in business with the brother, and will open a law office in his ain name! He’ll open it, ye ken, wi’ the Rath siller, in his ain name! Having got plenty o’ the Rath siller to set himsel’ up, he drops the man whom he used to fleech and flatter enou’ to sicken a honest man. And he trusts to you to mak’ all comfortable here – but no word or whisper anent the ninety pounds he’s owing you. He has gotten mair money than he expectit wi’ his stolen wife, and yet he hasna a thought for the sister wha emptied the small savings o’ her lifetime into his unthankfu’ hands. Wae’s me, but I’m the sorrowfu’ mither this day.”

“For a’ that, Mither, dinna mak’ yoursel’ sick. Luck o’ some kind threw the Rath siller in Neil’s way.”

“Ay, and the scoundrel has ta’en all he could get o’ it.”

“That’s the way o’ the warld, Mother.”

“It isn’t the way o’ honest, honorable men. He ought to hae spoken to the young man plainly, and he ought not to hae quarreled wi’ him anent their business proposal. I understand that the Rath lad was na very knowing in the law nor indeed notable for managing his ain affairs, in any way.”

“Weel, Mither, it comes to this – Neil had made up his mind to tak’ his living out o’ the Rath purse, and he finally decided that he would rayther tak’ it from the lady, than the gentleman.”

Margot laughed at this remark. “You’ll not be far wrang in that observe, Christine,” she said, “but the lad may be far out o’ his reckoning, and I’m not carin’ if it be so. Nae doubt he thought the lassie wad be easier controlled than her brither, who, I was led to believe, had a vera uncertain temper. Roberta may pay a’ our wrangs yet. Little women are gey often parfect Tartars.”

“Mither! Mither! You wouldn’t wish your ain lad to marry a Tartar o’ a wife, and sae be miserable.”

“Wouldn’t I? A stranger winning their way wi’ the Raths’ siller, wouldna hae troubled me, it would hae been out o’ my concern. Christine, there are two things no good woman likes to do. One is to bring a fool into the warld, and the other is to bring one o’ them clever fellows, who live on other people’s money, instead o’ working their way up, step by step. I’m shamed o’ my motherhood this day!”

“Na, na, Mither! Think of Norman, and Allan, and the lave o’ the lads!”

“And forbye, I think shame o’ any son o’ mine being married in a foreign country, in France itsel’, the French being our natural enemies.”

“Not just now, Mither, not just now.”

“Our natural enemies! and a kind o’ people, that dinna even speak like Christians. Ye ken I hae heard their language in this vera room, Christine, and sorry I am to hae permitted the like.”

“There’s nae harm in it, Mither.”

“It led him astray. If Ruleson’s lad hadna kent the French tongue, he would hae persuaded thae Raths that America was the only place to see the warld in.”

“Well, Mither, he went to the English church in France – the Protestant Episcopal Church!”

“Another great wrang to our family. The Rulesons are of the best Covenanting stock. What would John Knox say to a Ruleson being married in an Episcopal Church, at the very horns o’ the altar, as it were? An unchristened Turk could do naething more unfitting.”