Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl
Christine spent a restless, unhappy night. Norman had put before her a future that frightened her. She had seen the misery made by little wicked innuendoes half a dozen words long. Truly words could not kill her, but they could make life bitter and friendless, and there were women in the village she could neither conciliate, nor cope with, for the weapons they used were not in her armory. “Mither had a sharp tongue,” she said softly, “but even she couldna cope wi’ a lying tongue. Weel, there’s words anent it, in the Good Book, and I’ll seek them out, and they’ll be helping me.”
After all, the central trouble of her heart was neither her house, nor her neighbors, nor even her lover. Someway or other, they could and would be managed. But how was she to refill her empty purse? There was only one half-crown in it, and she had already found out the cruel uncertainty of literary work. It depended on too many people. Her novel was three-fourths done, but she reasoned that if men were so long on finding out whether they liked half a dozen verses, it would be all of a year, ere they got her novel well-examined. After realizing this condition, she said firmly, and with no evidence of unusual trial, “I can tak’ to the fish, in the meantime. I havna outgrown my fisher dress, nor forgot my fisher-calls, and Culraine folk will help me sell, if I look to the boats for my bread. They dinna understand the writing business – nae wonder! There’s few do! The Domine was saying it belongs to the mysteries o’ this life. Weel, I’ll get my pleasure out o’ it, and the fish are ay sure to come, and sure to be caught, and if I set mysel’ to the business, I can beat the auldest and youngest o’ the fisherwomen in the selling o’ them.”
When she came to this decision, the clock struck twelve, and she looked up at its face for a moment, and shook her head. “I canna sleep yet,” she said, “and you needna be calling me. There’s Cluny and Neil to think o’, and dear me, wha’ can Neil be hiding himsel’? He canna hae heard o’ Mither’s death, he would hae come here, and if he couldna come, he would hae written. There has been nae word, either, from that lass he married. She wrote seven lang pages o’ faults and accusations again her lawful husband, and then let the matter drop, as if it was of no further consequence. I didn’t answer her letter, and I am glad I didn’t. And I canna write now, for I know no more anent her whereabouts, than I do anent Neil’s. I wouldn’t wonder if they are together in some heathen country, where men fight duels, and kill each other for an ugly word. In a case like that, it would be fair murder for poor Neil. I wish I knew where the misguided lad is! Norman and Neil had no marriage luck, and wha kens what my luck may be, in the way o’ a husband!”
This intensely personal reflection claimed her whole attention. It was long since she had seen Cluny. Shortly before her mother’s death, he had gone as supercargo on a large merchant steamer, bound for New Zealand. It was a most important post, and he had been promised, if successful, the first captaincy in the fleet of passenger steamers carrying between England and the United States, that was vacant. Before leaving on this long trip to New Zealand, he had only managed to see Christine for three hours. He had reached Culraine at eight o’clock. He had run like a deer the mile and quarter which lay between the railway station and the Ruleson cottage, reaching his goal just as Christine finished reading a goodnight psalm to her mother. She had heard his steps afar off, it had seemed as if the comforting words were read to them – then she was at the open door, and they met in each other’s arms.
Three hours of pure, perfect happiness had followed. Cluny went first to Margot’s side. He knew it was the last time he could ever stand there. In this world they would see each other no more, and he was sorrowfully shocked and touched by the change in the handsome woman, once so vibrant and full of life. Sometimes they had not been very good friends, but this white, frail image, stretching out hands full of pleasure and goodwill to him – this gentle mother of the beloved Christine, won in a moment all his best sympathies. He promised her everything she asked, and then she sent him away with her blessing.
So it had been three hours of marvelous happiness. They had been content to forget all things but the joy of each other’s presence. To the last possible minute he had remained with her, and their hopeful farewell had not been dimmed by a single tear. Since that night, she had sent no anxious worrying thoughts after him. From every port at which his ship touched, he had written her long, loving letters, and now she was beginning to expect his return. Any day she might have a letter from him, dated Liverpool or Glasgow.
“Lat them talk,” she said with a little defiant laugh. “Lat their tongues tak’ their ain ill-way, I’m not feared. There’s Norman at my side, and the Domine not far off, and God aboon us all. I’ll speak to Norman anent the fishing, and if needs be, I can kipper the herring as weel as Mither did.” Then in a moment a wonderful change came over her, the angry scorn of her attitude, and the proud smile on her handsome face vanished. She clasped her hands, and with the light of unconquerable love on her face, she said with tender eagerness – “What does she do now? Oh dear God, what is Mither doing now? I canna tell. I canna tell, but it is Thy will, I’m sure o’ that.” Then the loving tears that followed this attitude washed away all traces of her scorn and anger, and she lay down with prayer on her lips, and fell sweetly asleep.
CHAPTER XII
NEIL’S RETURN HOME
They that sin, are enemies to their own life. – Tobit, xii, 10.
But Thou sparest all, for they are Thine, O Lord, Thou Lover of Souls. – Wisdom of Solomon, xi, 26.
Tomorrow is always another day, always a new day, and as long as we live, always our day. It will bring us our little freight of good or evil, and we must accept it, our salvation being that we have the power of turning the evil into good, by the manner in which we accept it. When Christine awoke in the morning, she awoke all at once. No faculty of the Inner Woman dozed or lingered, every sense of the physical woman was attent, even sight – which often delays after its sister senses are conscious – promptly lifted its curtains, and Christine knew in a moment that she was all there, every sense and faculty alert, and ready for whatever the new day brought her.
She thought first of the trouble that Jessy was likely to make. “The maist o’ the women will side wi’ Jessy,” she thought, “not because they like her, but because they dearly like a quarrel. I’ll not quarrel with them. I’ll bide at hame, and if they come up here, I’ll bolt the doors on them. That’s settled. I can neither keep back, nor hurry forward Cluny, sae I’ll just put him in God’s care, and leave him there. Neil has ta’en himsel’ out o’ my kindness and knowledge, I can only ask God to gie his angel a charge concerning him. The great queston is, how am I to get my bread and tea? There’s plenty o’ potatoes in the house, and a pennyworth o’ fish will make me a meal. And I am getting a few eggs from the hens now, but there’s this and that unaccountable thing wanted every day; and I hae just two-and-sixpence half-penny left. Weel! I’ll show my empty purse to the Lord o’ heaven and earth, and I’m not doubting but that He will gie me a’ that is gude for me.”
She put down her tea cup decisively to this declaration, and then rose, tidied her house and herself, and sat down to her novel. With a smile she opened her manuscript, and looked at what she had accomplished. “You tiresome young woman,” she said to her heroine. “You’ll hae to make up your mind vera soon, now, whether ye’ll hae Sandy Gilhaize, or Roy Brock. I’ll advise you to tak’ Sandy, but I dinna think you’ll do it, for you are a parfect daffodil o’ vanity, and you think Roy Brock is mair of a gentleman than Sandy. I dinna ken what to do wi’ you! – ”
Here the door was noisily opened, and Jamie rushed in, crying “Auntie, Auntie! I hae three letters for you, and one o’ them came a week ago.”
“Oh Jamie, why did you not go to the post office before this?”
“I was getting ready for my exam – ”
“Gie me the letters, laddie.”
“And I could not get off till this morning.”
There was a long letter from Cluny, but it was not the delayed letter; and when Jamie had gone home, she gave her whole heart to the reading of it. Then she turned anxiously to the other two. Both of them contained small checks for poems written so long ago that she had quite forgotten them. They were, however, veritable godsends, and she thanked God for them. Now she could go to work. She could even take time to make her foolish heroine do the proper thing. She felt as rich, with her two pounds, as if the two had been twenty. And Cluny was on his way home! Her letter had been posted at Auckland, and he was about to leave there, for home, when he wrote.
The novel now progressed rapidly. It was writing itself, and “The Daughter of the Sea” was all the company Christine wanted. Norman came up the hill once in the day, or he sent his son Will, in his place, and Jamie always ate his lunch beside Aunt Christine, and sometimes Judith called to see if there was any news of Cluny. Sunday was her day of trial. Ill-will can make itself felt, and never say a word, and Christine noticed that everyone drew away from her. If Judith, or Peter Brodie, or anyone spoke to her, they were at once set apart. Everyone else drew away, and the very girls to whom she had been kindest, drew furthest away.
It was, perhaps, a good thing for her. She only drew the closer to God, and her pen was a never-failing friend and companion. The days flew by, in the nights she slept and dreamed, and now and then the Domine came in, and comforted and strengthened her. Then she read him little chapters from her book, and he gave her much good advice, and sufficient praise to encourage her. So week after week went on, and though the whole village really disapproved of her retaining the Ruleson cottage, she nearly forgot the circumstance. And the book grew and grew in beauty, day by day, until on one lovely June afternoon, the pretty heroine married Sandy Gilhaize, and behaved very well ever afterward.
The Domine came in and found her flushed and excited over the wedding, and the parting, and he took the book away with him, and told her he would look after its sale, and she was to worry no more about it. “Try and forget it exists, Christine, then neither your wishing nor your fearing will interfere with the fortune your good angel intends for it.”
“I am going to gie the house a good clean, frae the roof to the doorstep,” she answered, “and when I hae that business on hand, it is all I can think about.”
“Is not cleaning the house again a work of supererogation?”
“I dinna ken what kind o’ wark that may be, Sir, but Mither always cleaned the house weel, before the herring came. She’ll be expecting me to do the same thing.”
So the Domine took away the manuscript, and Christine cleaned her house with even extra care, and one night a week afterwards, she sat down to her cup of tea, telling herself that there wasna a speck o’ dust from the roof to the doorstane. “Even the knives and forks shine like siller,” she said, “and the bath-brick board wouldna file the cleanest duster.” She was personally in the same spotless condition, and the little scone, and bit of baked fish, and the cup of tea on the snow white tablecloth, only emphasized this sense of absolute purity.
As she was drinking her tea, Norman lifted the latch and entered, and she greeted him joyfully. “Come awa’ and welcome,” she cried. “I was just longing to see you. Bring a cup and saucer off the rack, laddie, and sit down, and tell me what’s going on in the village.”
“Weel, the great news is the nearness o’ the herrin’. From a’ accounts we may hae them in our bay in a week.”
“I am glad o’ the news.”
“I dinna think you would be carin’.”
“Why shouldn’t I care? I am longing to mak’ some money. I intend to tak’ up my mither’s kippering.”
“I’m glad o’ that. Why should ye let it slip through your fingers? I heard tell that Nancy Baird was thinking o’ taking Mither’s place.”
“She’ll do naething o’ that kind. Mither took pains to fit me for that wark, and I am going to do it wi’ all my might. Norman, what can you do to mak’ it easy for me?”
“That is what I came here to talk to you about. I’ll tell Willie he is your gillie, as it were, for the fishing. He will carry the fish to the shed for you, and dinna forget Mither’s cubby there is yours! Feyther paid for the space, and put up all the fixtures. If they werna named in the will, and there is any question of my right in the matter, say, I hae given it to you.”
“But the kippering shed and fixtures were named and given to Mither and mysel’, and – ”
“They are yours. Let no one put you oot o’ your right. Willie will bring the feesh to you – the finest I hae in my nets – and when they are kippered, he’ll go to the town wi’ you, and carry your basket.”
“That is all I need, Norman, and I am vera gratefu’ for your kindness.”
“And I’ll be walking through the shed, to see that a’ is right. And if anything is beyont you, sister, you’ll send Willie for me.”
Christine could not speak, but she put her hand in his, and the look on her lovely face filled his eyes with tears. “You are wonderfu’ like Mither this afternoon, Christine,” he said softly. And both were silent a little while. When he spoke next, it was of Neil – “Hae ye had a word frae the lad yet?” he asked.
“Not one, nor from the lass he married. I don’t know what to think.”
“Weel, it is as easy to think good, as evil. If we dinna thing wrang, we won’t do wrang. Thinking no evil! That is what the Good Book advises. The puir lad was spoiled i’ the making. If he comes back to any o’ us, he will come back to you, Christine. There was the son, wha left his hame, in the gospels – ye ken how he was treated?”
“Whenever Neil comes hame, Norman, he will hae a loving welcome from Christine.”
“The puir lad made a mistake wi’ his marriage. That is the warst of a’ mistakes. No man wins o’er it. It is the bitter drop in a’ he eats and drinks, it is the pebble in his shoe, whether he warks or plays. Neil willna come hame till sorrow drives him here – then?”
“I’ll do all that love can do, Norman.”
“And call on me, if you think it needfu’.”
The very next day Christine went to see her mother’s customers. The idea of Nancy Baird’s stepping into her mother’s shoes was intolerable. “I’ll not thole a thing like that! It settles the question to me! If I didna need the money, I would kipper the herrin’, but I’m needing the money, and the herrin’ are my lawfu’ venture.” So to the town she went, and even far exceeded her usual orders. She was much elated by her success, and immediately began to prepare her mother’s place for the work before her. It caused much talk in the village, but it prevented the Baird woman’s taking unauthorized possession of Christine’s place in the curing-shed.
Then while she was waiting and watching for the fish, she got a letter from Cluny. He was at home again. He was coming to Culraine on Saturday. He would be there by noon, and he would remain in Culraine until Monday night. She was full of joy, and instantly began to prepare for her visitor. It was Friday morning, and she had but little time, but that little was enough if things went with her. First she went to the village and asked Judith to come and stay with her, until the following Tuesday, and the old woman was delighted to do so. “We will hae Cluny to oursel’s then,” she said, “and I’ll tak’ the house wark off your hands, Christine, and you and Cluny can hae the time for your ain talk and planning.”
“And man nor woman can say nae ill word anent Cluny visiting me, if you are here.”
“Lat them say their pleasure. They’ll say naething oot o’ the way, while I am here. They ken better.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hae promised ane and all o’ them to call a church session the first ill word I hear. I will hae their names read out frae the pulpit – christened name and surname – and then they will be oot o’ communion wi’ the kirk, till they confess their sin, standing up in the congregation, and asking to be forgiven. Will ye think o’ Sally Johnson, and Kitty Brawn, and a’ that crowd o’ sinful women making such a spectacle o’ themsel’s! Gar! It makes me laugh.” And she laughed, as women of the natural order do laugh, and such laughing is very contagious, and Christine laughed also, as she gurgled out, “You never would do a thing like that, Judith?”
“Wouldn’t I? Lat them try me.”
“The Domine wouldn’t do it.”
“He couldna help himsel’. It is in the ‘Ordering o’ the Kirk.’ He wad be forced to call the session, and I wouldn’t won’ner if he rayther liked the jarring occasion. He dislikes insulting women, and why shouldn’t he like to gie them a galling withstanding. It wad be vera desirable i’ my opinion.”
Cluny had said, in his letter, that his next voyage would be the last before their marriage, and that he would have to sweeten the next half year with the memories of his coming visit. So Christine killed her young, plump, spring chickens, and saved all her eggs, and provided every good thing she could for her expected lover.
The next three days were days taken out of this work-a-day world, and planted in Paradise. Everything appeared to unite to make them so. Judith looked after the house, the lovers wandered in the hill side garden. They were lovely days, green, shot with gold, and the whole sweet place was a caress of scent. The roses in Margot’s garden were in their first spring beauty, and the soul of a white jasmine vine, that surrounded the spot, breathed of heaven. The larkspurs stood around like watchful grenadiers. Lilies and pansies were at their feet, and the laburnum hung its golden droops above them. All the day long, the sea was blue and calm, and the waves seemed to roll themselves asleep upon the shore. At night, there was a full moon above the water, and in its light the projecting rigging of some ships lying on it looked like spider webs on the gray firmament. The sun, and the moon, and the sea were all new, and the whole world was their own.
Talk of their marriage no longer made trouble, for Christine now sweetly echoed his hopes and his dreams. She had said “on the fifteenth of next April, or there-abouts,” and Cluny seized and clung to the positive date. “Let it be the fifteenth,” he decided. “I cannot bear ‘there-abouts,’ or any other uncertainty.”
“The fifteenth might fall on a Sunday.”
“Then let it be Sunday. There can be no better day;” and Christine smiled and lifted her beautiful face, and he wanted to give her a thousand kisses. For nearly three days all the ancient ecstasies of love and youth were theirs. I need say no more. The morning redness of life and love has once tinged us all.
Judith went home the following day. Nothing less than the joys and sorrows and contentions of the whole village, were sufficient for her troubled and troubling spirit. Judith had everyone’s affairs to look after, but she gave the supremacy of her attention to Cluny and Christine. Christine, she said, was a by-ordinary girl. She had written a poem, and got gude siller for it, and there wasna anither lass in Culraine, no, nor i’ the hale o’ Scotland, could do the same thing.
Christine’s first employment was to put her house in perfect order, then she took out her old fisher dresses, and selected one for the work before her. She hoped that her effort to take her mother’s place in the kippering shed would put a stop to the fisherwives’ opinion that she was “setting hersel’ up aboon them a’.” She longed for their good will, and she had no desire whatever to “tak’ her mither’s outstanding place,” a fear of which intention some of the older women professed.
Her first visitor was her brother Norman. He put a stop at once to all her good and kind intentions. “You mustna go near the kippering,” he said. “I hae heard what must put a stop to that intent. The herrin’ are near by, and may be here tonight. If so be, I will send my lad, Willie, to the foot o’ the hill wi’ your feesh, by five o’clock in the morning. He will carry your basket easy, and do your bidding in a’ things. Gae yer ways to the town, and cry your feesh, and you’ll hae the siller in your hand when you come hame.”
“Why can I not kipper my fish, Norman?”
“It isna worth while tellin’ ye. God alone understands quarrelsome women, but if you go to the kippering-shed, there will be trouble – and trouble for me, Christine – for Jessy is in wi’ them.”
“I will do as you tell me, Norman. Hae the fish ready at six o’clock.”
Then Norman went away, and Christine put back in its place the kippering suit, and took out her very prettiest selling suit. For her mourning dress touched only her domestic and social life, her business had its own dress, and the fisher dress was part of the business. She had no sense of humiliation in assuming it, nor yet in the selling of the fish. She had liked very well the little gossip with known householders, and had not been offended by the compliments she received from strangers and passersby. The first morning of this new season was really a little triumph. All her old friends wanted to hear about Margot’s sickness and death, and when her basket was empty, she sent Willie home and stayed with an old friend of her mother’s, and had a cup of tea and a fried herring with her.
They had much to talk about, and Christine resolved to stay with her until the mail should come in, which would be about eleven o’clock. Then if there was any letter for her, she could get it at once. “The Domine is aye thoughtless anent the mail,” she reflected, and then with a little laugh added, “he hasna any love letters coming, or he would be thinking on it.”
She received two letters. One was a letter from Cluny, mailed at Moville, Ireland. The other was from Blackwood’s Publishing House, offering her a hundred and fifty pounds advance, and ten per cent royalty for her novel, or, if she preferred it, three hundred and fifty pounds for all rights. She went to the Domine with this letter, and he advised her to accept three hundred and fifty pounds for all rights. “You will be requiring bride-dresses, and house-napery of many kinds,” he said, “and, my dear girl, God has sent you this check. He knew you would have need of these things. You ought to be very happy in this thought.”
“I am, Sir. You know how ‘just enough’ has been my daily bread; and I was worrying a little about wedding garments, and expenses.”
“Well, Christine, of all life’s fare, God’s daily bread is best. Answer your letter here, and I will mail it for you. In a few days you will have plenty of money. Go at once, and put it in the bank.”
“I will, Sir. And when I get home, I will begin another book at once.”
“Go with the fish, until you have the money in your hand. Things unforeseen might happen to delay payment. Good Fortune does not like us to be too sure of her. I have seen her change her mind in that case.”
“You are always right, Sir. I will do as you say.”
“In three days you may expect the money. Do your work as if you were not expecting it. Miss nothing of your duty.”
So Christine went the second morning, and had extraordinary success. Among the “Quality Houses” they were watching for her. They had never before seen such fine, and such fresh fish. They would have no others. She went home with her little purse full of silver, and her heart singing within her. It was not, after all, so bad to be a fisher-girl. If it was all small money, it was all ready money. And the people who had known her mother had remembered her, and spoken kindly of her, and Christine loved them for it. She had not yet forgotten. Oh no! Many times in the day and night she cried softly, “Mither! Mither! Where are ye? Dinna forget Christine!”
On the third morning she had a little adventure. She was delaying, for she was waiting for the mail, and had taken a cup of tea with her mother’s old friend. She stood in the doorway talking, and Christine was on the sidewalk, at the foot of the steps. Her empty basket was at her feet. She stood beside it, and the sunshine fell all over her. Its searching light revealed nothing but a perfection of form, a loveliness of face, and a charm of manner, that defied all adverse criticism. She looked as the women of that elder world, who were the mothers of godlike heroes, must have looked.
