Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl

CHAPTER VIII

AN UNEXPECTED MARRIAGE

The tale that I relate
This lesson seems to carry
Choose not alone a proper mate,
But proper time to marry.

The little enthusiasm incident to Neil’s success did not last long, for

Joy’s the shyest bird,
Mortal ever heard,
Listen rapt and silent when he sings;
Do not seek to see,
Less the vision be
But a flutter of departing wings.

And if it is not tightly clasped, and well guarded, it soon fades away, especially if doubt or question come near it. The heart, which is never weary of recalling its sorrows, seems to have no echo for its finer joys. This, however, may be our own fault. Let us remember for a moment or two how ruthlessly we transfer yesterday into today, and last week into this week. We have either no time or no inclination to entertain joys that have passed. They are all too quickly retired from our working consciousness, to some dim, little-visited nook in our memory. And taken broadly, this is well. Life is generally precious, according to the strength and rapidity of its flow, and change is the splendid surge of a life of this kind. A perfect life is then one full of changes. It is also a safe life, for it is because men have no changes, that they fear not God.

Now the people of this little fishing village had lives lined with change. Sudden deaths were inevitable, when life was lived on an element so full of change and peril as the great North Sea. Accidents were of daily occurrence. Loss of boats and nets reduced families to unlooked-for poverty. Sons were constantly going away to strange seas and strange countries, and others, who had been to the Arctic Ocean, or the ports of Australia, coming back home. The miracle of the son’s being dead and being alive again, was not infrequently repeated. Indeed all the tragedies and joys of life found their way to this small hamlet, hidden among the rocks and sand dunes that guard the seas of Fife.

Margot’s triumph was very temporary. It was not of the ordinary kind. It had in it no flavor of the sea, and the lad who had won his honors had never identified himself with the fishers of Culraine. He did not intend to live among them, and they had a salutary fear of the law, and no love for it. As a general thing neither the men nor women of Culraine cared whether Neil Ruleson won his degree or not. Such pleasure as they felt in his success was entirely for his father’s sake.

And Margot was content that it should be so. She was not heart-pleased with Neil, and not inclined to discuss his plans with her neighbors. She noticed also that Neil’s father had nothing to say about his son’s success, and that if the subject was introduced, it was coldly met and quickly banished.

It hurt Christine. Her life had been so intermingled with Neil’s hopes and plans, she could not let them drop unnoticed from her consciousness. “Why do you say naething anent Neil, Mither?” she asked one wet morning, when the boats were in harbor, and Ruleson had gone down to the new schoolhouse.

“Weel, Christine, I hae said a’ there is to say.”

“Were you really disappointed, Mither?”

“In a way.”

“But Neil succeeded.”

“In a way.”

“What way, Mither?”

“His ain way. He has been vera successful i’ that way, sin’ the day he was born. A wee, shrunken, puny infant he was, but he hes been a bit too much for us all – and there’s seven big men in our family, forbye mysel’ and Christine. Whiles I had a glimmering o’ the real lad, but maistly I did the lad’s way – like the rest o’ us.”

“You said he was kind to you and Feyther.”

“He hed to be. It’s a law, like the laws o’ the Medes and Persians, in Aberdeen, that lads takin’ honors should pay great attention to their feythers and mithers. Some were auld and poor – far poorer than fisher-folk ever are – they had worked, and starved, and prayed for their lads, and they were going about Aberdeen streets, linked on their lads’ arms, and all o’ them like to cry wi’ joy. Neil had to do like the lave, but I let his feyther gae his lane wi’ him. I wasna carin’ to mak’ a show o’ mysel’.”

“Then you shouldna blame Neil, Mither.”

“Should I not? I do, though.”

“What did he do wrang?”

“He did little right, and that little he had nae pleasure in. I know! He should hae spent the evening wi’ his feyther and mysel’, and told us what plans he had made for the future, but he went to the Raths’ and left us alane. He had promised all along to come hame wi’ us, and spend a few weeks wi’ the boats – your feyther is short-handed since Cluny Macpherson went awa’ – and there’s little doing in the law business during July and August, but he said he had an invite to the Raths’ house on the Isle of Arran, and with them he has gane.”

“I’m sorry, sorry, Mither.”

“Sae am I, Christine, but when things hae come to ‘I’m sorry,’ there’s nae gude left i’ them.”

“Do you think he is engaged to Roberta Rath?”

“I canna say. I don’t think he kens himsel’.”

“Did you see her?”

“He pointed her out to me. She was getting into a carriage, and – ”

“Weel?”

“O, she was a little body; I saw naething o’ her but a blue silk dress, and a white lace bonnet. It would be ordinary, nae doubt. She waved a white-gloved hand to Neil, and the lad’s face was like an illumination. She seemed vera sma’ and thin – just a handfu’ o’ her. Naething like yoursel’ and our ain full-statured, weel-finished women.”

“I feel as if I had lost Neil.”

“You may do sae, for a man can be lost by a woman, quite as completely as by the North Sea.”

Then Ruleson entered the cottage. He was wet through, but his face was red with health, and radiant with excitement. He had been in the new schoolhouse, and seen three large boxes unpacked. “Margot! Christine!” he cried joyfully, “you’ll be to come down the hill – the baith o’ you – and see the wonderfu’ things that hae come for ordering and plenishing o’ our school. There’s a round ball as big as that table, set in a frame – and it turns round, and round, and shows a’ the countries and seas i’ the wide warld. The Maister said it was called a globe. There’s maps o’ Scotland, and England and a’ other nations to hang on the walls, and they are painted bonnily; and there’s nae end o’ copy books and slates, and bundles o’ pencils, and big bottles o’ ink, and, Margot, I ne’er saw sae many school books i’ a’ my born days. Naething has been forgotten. The maister said sae, and the Domine said sae.”

“Was the Domine there?”

“Ay, was he. He and the maister unpacked the boxes. Forbye, there is three prizes for the three best scholars – the bairns will go wild o’er them.”

“What are they?”

“I canna tell you. The Domine forbade me.”

“You’ll hae to tell me, gudeman. I’ll hae nae secrets between us twa, and I’m mair than astonished at the Domine, throwing a married man into such a temptation.”

“I’ll go wi’ you how, Feyther. I want to see the wonderfuls.”

“They are locked by for today. We are going to fix the school room Monday, and hae a kind o’ examination Tuesday. I hope to goodness the herrin’ will keep to the nor’ard for a few days.”

“Listen to your feyther, Christine! Wishing the herrin’ awa’ for a lot o’ school bairns.”

“Weel, Margot, woman, it’s maist unlikely the feesh will be here for a week or mair, but they hae a will and a way o’ their ain, and aince or twice, or mebbe mair than that, I hae seen them in these pairts in June.”

“I think the Domine might hae notified Christine. She ought, by rights, to hae been at that unpacking.”

“Weel, Margot, it cam’ my way. I dinna think my lassie grudges me the pleasure.”

And Christine looked at him with a smile that deified her lovely face, and made Ruleson’s heart thrill with pleasure.