Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

“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.

One day she received from him a letter dated Madrid, and it contained a handsome lace collar, which she was asked to wear for his sake, and thus remember his love “so sorrowfully passionate, and alas, so early doomed to disappointment and despair!”

“The leeing lad!” she angrily exclaimed. “I’ll just tell him the truth, and be done wi’ him. I’ll send him the collar back, and tell him I’m no carin’ to be reminded o’ him, in ony shape or fashion. I’ll tell him he kens naething about love, and is parfectly ignorant o’ any honest way o’ makin’ love. I’ll tell him that he never loved me, and that I never loved him worth talking about, and that I’ll be obligated to him if he’ll drop the makin’ believe, and write to me anent village matters, or not write at a’.”

Days so full and so happy went quickly away, and though there had been so much to do, never had the village been ready for the herring visit, as early, and so completely, as it was this summer. When Margot’s roses began to bloom, the nets were all leaded, and ready for the boats, and the boats themselves had all been overhauled and their cordage and sails put in perfect condition. There would be a few halcyon days of waiting and watching, but the men were gathering strength for the gigantic labor before them, as they lounged on the pier, and talked sleepily of their hopes and plans.

It was in this restful interval that James and Margot Ruleson received a letter from their son Neil, inviting them to the great Commencement of his college. He said he was chosen to make the valedictory speech for his class, that he had passed his examination with honor, and would receive his commission as one of Her Majesty’s attorneys at law. “If you would honor and please me by your presence, dear father and mother,” he wrote, “I shall be made very happy, and I will secure a room for you in the house where I am living, and we can have our meals together.”

It is needless to say this letter canceled all faults. Margot was delighted at the prospect of a railway journey, and a visit to Aberdeen. She was going to see for hersel’ what a university was like – to see the hundreds o’ lads studying for the law and the gospel there – to hae a change in the weary sameness of her hard fisher life. For a few days she was going to be happy and play, hersel’, and see her lad made a gentleman, by the gracious permission o’ Her Majesty, Queen Victoria.

The invitation being gladly accepted, Margot had anxious consultations with Christine about her dress. She knew that she was the handsomest woman in Culraine, when she wore her best fishing costume; “but I canna wear the like o’ it,” she said in a lingering, rather longing tone.

“Na, na, Mither, ye be to dress yoursel’ like a’ ither ladies. Your gray silk is fine and fitting, but you must hae a new bonnet, and white gloves, and a pair o’ patent leather shoon – a low shoe, wi’ bows o’ black ribbon on the instep. There’s few women hae a neater foot than you hae, and we’ll gae the morn and get a’ things needfu’ for your appearance. Feyther hes his kirk suit, and he is requiring naething, if it be not a pair o’ gloves.”

“He never puts a glove on his hand, Christine.”

“Ay, weel, he can carry them in his hand. They are as respectable in his hands, as on them. It is just to show folk that he can afford to glove his hands, if he wants to do it. That is maistly what people wear fine claes of all kinds for. They would be happier i’ their ivery day loose and easy suits, I’m thinking,” said Christine.

“I wonder why Neil didna ask you, Christine. You helped him many a weary hour to the place he is now standing on. If he had not asked anyone else, he ought to hae bidden you to his finishing and honoring. Why didn’t he do that proper thing? Hae ye ony quarrel wi’ him?”

“Not a word oot o’ place between us. I wrote him a four-page letter three days syne.”

“What’s the matter, then?”

“He’s feared for me, Mither. He’s feared his friend Reginald will do as Angus did, fa’ in love wi’ me, and then get oot o’ love wi’ him. Men are silly as bairns anent some things. I’m not carin’, Mither. Someone must bide at hame, and look after wee Jamie, and you yoursel’ will be mair contented if you ken I am here to tak’ tent o’ the house and bairn, and the lave o’ things.”

“Ay, it’s better. You canna leave a house its lane, any mair than a bairn. The ane will get into dole and mischief, as quick as the ither. You’ll be minding Polly Cromarty’s bit cottage, taking fire and burning to the ground, and not a man, woman, or bairn near it. And Bella Simpson the same, and Kate Dalrymple losing a’ her savings, and the house locked and barr’d and naebody in it, or near it. I’ll go to Aberdeen real happy if you are watching the house, while I’m awa’ playing, mysel’.”

So there was a week of happy preparation, and then on a fine Monday morning Mr. and Mrs. Ruleson went to Aberdeen. Margot was satisfied to leave her house in Christine’s care, but at the last hour, she had discovered another likelihood of trouble. It was the herring.

“They are maistly twa weeks earlier, or later than looked for, Christine,” she said, “and, of course, they’ll be earlier this year. I wouldn’t wonder that when we reach Aberdeen, we’ll find them there, if they arena at Culraine itsel’. And if feyther’s boat isna leading, it will be that meddlesome Peter Brodie’s boat – and that would rile me a’ the year through.”

“Mither, it is too soon for the herrin’. You needna fret yoursel’ anent the herrin’. If there are any signs o’ the feesh, I’ll gie young Donald Grant a smile, and he’ll watch for them night and day to pleasure me. I’ll not let Peter hae a chance to find them.”

“That’s a’ right.”

And when they were fairly gone and out o’ sight, Christine sat down to consider, and to draw her personality together. She felt as if there were half-a-dozen Christines, and she was equally conscious of an unusual house. Its atmosphere was intense and restless, and slightly dissatisfied. Christine considered it for a few moments, and then said, “Nae wonder! Everything in it is tapsalterie, and I’ll just go through it, and make it tidy and clean, and proper for the hame-coming.”

At Aberdeen railway station they found Neil waiting for them. He took them to the house he called “home.” It was a very respectable house, in a very respectable quarter of the city, kept by Mrs. Todd, a sea-captain’s widow, a woman with “relatives weel kent, and o’ the better class o’ folk.” She took to Margot, and Margot, with some reservations, took to her. Ruleson was anxious to see the city. From the small window in his railway carriage his eyes had rested upon its granite towers and spires, and he went with Neil to walk down Maraschal and Union Streets, the latter being a most splendid roadway, with houses and pavements of gray granite. For a full mile’s length, the street looked as if it had been cut and fashioned out of the solid rock, for the mortar used could not be seen. There were splendid shops on these streets, but there was no sign of a circus, nor of any other place of amusement.

Sitting at tea with the captain’s widow, he named this fact. “I saw naething o’ a circus,” he said, “and a man with whom I talked a few minutes said there were no theaters or concert halls, or the like o’ such places, in Aberdeen.”

“Just sae,” answered the widow, “we hae nae amusements here, but preaching, preaching!”

“Gudeman, why were you seeking information anent amusements? They arena in your way.”

“I was just makin’ a few interrogatories, Margot. I wanted to ken how the people passed their days. I didna see any sign o’ manufactories. What do they mak’ then in Aberdeen?”

Ruleson looked pointedly at the widow as he spoke, and she answered with an air of quiet superiority. “Aberdeen mak’s men – men out o’ the raw material, for a’ the marts and markets o’ the warld. We hae lads to be made men o’ frae every part o’ Scotland; for poor lads can get here the best o’ learning for sma’ cost. They can hae board for five shilling a week, and the professors’ fees are only seven or eight pounds a session. A twenty-five-pound bursary will pay all expenses. Many of the poor students board themselves, and a great deal can be done on porridge and milk, and fish, and meal. And we hae the gentry, too, Sir! plenty of rich lads, as well as poor ones, and the one kind helps the ither.”

Ruleson saw both kinds the next day – hundreds of braw young lads, running over with the joyous spirit of youth. Hard to control, yet thoroughly under control, they filled the large university hall with an almost intoxicating influence of life. You could not feel old while breathing it. Yet it all seemed very much like a church meeting to Margot, until Neil stepped to the front of the crowded platform. That sight brought her heart and soul home, and she laid her hand on her husband’s hand, and sat still to listen.

He looked handsome and gentlemanly, and held a folded paper in his hand. Bowing to the professors, the provost, and the other dignitaries surrounding him, he then turned a smiling face to the audience, and commenced his speech. It was a very learned discussion on a point of law then causing international argument, and as his various points reached their climax, he was warmly applauded. At its close many stood up in their enthusiasm to honor him, and in the midst of this excitement, the president of the Maraschal handed him, with the set formula, the credentials which made Neil Ruleson one of Her Majesty’s gentlemen and councilors-at-law.

Neil’s father sat motionless, but his grave face changed like the pages of a book which are being turned. Margot was almost hysterical. She covered her face and wept, and all eyes were turned on her, and every heart said to itself, “She will be the lad’s mother.” And coming out of the hall, many nodded to her and smiled. They wanted her to feel that they rejoiced with her. Outside the university, Neil joined his father and mother, and as he passed through the crowd, with his mother on his arm, he was hailed with the congratulations both of those who knew him, and those who did not know him.

It was a wonderful hour to the Ruleson party, and perhaps only James Ruleson had any shadow of regret in it. He did not once voice this regret, but it was present to his thoughts and imagination. Neil as a gentleman of Scotland and a member of the Scottish bar was a great honor, but Oh, if he had seen him in the minister’s gown and bands, and heard his first sermon, how much greater his joy! How much prouder of his son’s success he would have been!

But he said nothing to Margot which could dim her satisfaction. Mrs. Todd did that quite sufficiently. She spoke with contempt o’ the fool-like way Aberdeen folk went on, every time a lad happened to get a degree, or a bit o’ school honor; and the thing happening a’ the time, as it were. She made Margot feel by her short, cool remarks, that Neil’s triumph might, after all, be an ordinary affair, and for a little season took all the glory out of Neil’s achievement, though in doing so, she was careful of the reputation of her native city, and candidly admitted that in spite of a’ their well-kent scholarship, Aberdeeners were kindly folk, aye ready to gie a shout o’ encouragement to a new beginner.

Margot, however, quickly readjusted the dampened and discouraged feeling Mrs. Todd’s opinions induced. “She’s just jealous, because Neil is a Fife lad. That’s a’ there is to her say-so! I hae heard often that Aberdeeners were a jealous folk. I’m saying naething against their kindliness. They hae treated Neil weel, and nae doubt they understood weel enou’ what they were doing.”

Neil spent most of the day with his parents, but about six in the evening he came to them in full evening dress, and said he was going to the Rath’s hotel. “They have a dinner in my honor,” he continued, “and the Provost’s son, and several important people will be there; and I am to be introduced to the Hepburn of Hepburn Braes, a great nobleman in these parts. There will be ladies, too, of course, and I, am expecting a profitable and pleasant evening.” And though Margot was quite elated over her son’s great friends, Ruleson would have been far prouder had he known Neil was going to take the chair at a session of elders connected with some kirk of which Neil was the Domine.

The next morning they returned to Culraine with hearts full of memories for which they could thank God, and they found their son Allan sitting at their fireside. As soon as Allan saw them enter, he rose and went to them, and took their hands in his hands, and said in a voice trembling with emotion, “Father! Mother! Your kindness to my little lad has made you father and mother twice over to me.” Then what a happy hour followed! For as they were sitting down to their evening meal, the Domine entered. He had heard of Allan’s visit and had become anxious about the child, lest he might be taken from them. And it was during these troubled hours he bethought him of the necessity for a legal adoption of little Jamie by his grandfather and himself, a plan taken into consideration that very night, and within the next three months made binding as book and bond could fix it.

The Domine was a welcome addition to the family party. He slipped with a smile into Christine’s place, and she rose and served them with grace and sweetness. And as she went softly around the table, replenishing emptied plates, and refilling teacups, saying nothing, but seeing to everyone’s comfort, her beauty took on an extraordinary charm. Woman, or rather ministering angel, she seemed, and it was strange that all present took her beautiful service, as things of spiritual beauty are usually taken, without much notice. Yet she was that night the golden band around the table, that kept the sweet influences of the meal peaceful and unbroken from the beginning to the end of it. A few happy hours followed, and then the Domine took Allan back to the manse with him. “They are a’ tired here,” he said, “but you and I, Allan, can talk the night awa’.”

This they did, but there were only two or three sentences in their long conversation which concern this story. They referred to the happy family life of the Rulesons. “I never go to your father’s house, Allan,” said the Domine, “without regretting that I did not marry. I have come to the conclusion that marriage is Nature’s way of coaxing the best out of us. A man puts his back into the uplift for wife and children, for to make them happy is better than riches or fame.”

“Still you might have made a mistake, Sir.”

“Earth would be heaven, Allan, if we never made mistakes. But in spite of mistakes, men live contented with the world, and happy with each other.”