Christine.

by Amelia Edith Huddleston Barr.

CHAPTER I

FISHERS OF CULRAINE

The hollow oak our palace is Our heritage the sea.

Howe'er it be it seems to me 'Tis only n.o.ble to be good.

Kind hearts are more than coronets And simple faith than Norman blood.

Friends, who have wandered with me through England, and Scotland, and old New York, come now to Fife, and I will tell you the story of Christina Ruleson, who lived in the little fishing village of Culraine, seventy years ago. You will not find Culraine on the map, though it is one of that chain of wonderful little towns and villages which crown, as with a diadem, the forefront and the sea-front of the ancient kingdom of Fife. Most of these towns have some song or story, with which they glorify themselves, but Culraine--hidden in the clefts of her sea-girt rocks--was _in_ the world, but not _of_ the world.

Her people lived between the sea and the sky, between their hard lives on the sea, and their glorious hopes of a land where there would be "no more sea."

Seventy years ago every man in Culraine was a fisherman, a mighty, modest, blue-eyed Goliath, with a serious, inscrutable face; naturally a silent man, and instinctively a very courteous one. He was exactly like his great-grandfathers, he had the same fishing ground, the same phenomena of tides and winds, the same boat of rude construction, and the same implements for its management. His modes of thought were just as stationary. It took the majesty of the Free Kirk Movement, and its host of self-sacrificing clergy, to rouse again that pa.s.sion of religious faith, which made him the most thorough and determined of the followers of John Knox.

The women of these fishermen were in many respects totally unlike the men. They had a character of their own, and they occupied a far more prominent position in the village than the men did. They were the agents through whom all sales were effected, and all the money pa.s.sed through their hands. They were talkative, a.s.sertive, bustling, and a marked contrast to their gravely silent husbands.

The Fife fisherman dresses very much like a sailor--though he never looks like one--but the Fife fisher-wife had then a distinctly foreign look. She delighted in the widest stripes, and the brightest colors.

Flaunting calicoes and many-colored kerchiefs were her steady fashion.

Her petticoats were very short, her feet trigly shod, and while unmarried she wore a most picturesque headdress of white muslin or linen, set a little backward over her always luxuriant hair. Even in her girlhood she was the epitome of power and self-reliance, and the husband who could prevent her in womanhood from making the bargains and handling the money, must have been an extraordinarily clever man.

I find that in representing a certain cla.s.s of humanity, I have accurately described, mentally and physically, the father and mother of my heroine; and it is only necessary to say further that James Ruleson was a sternly devout man. He trusted G.o.d heartily at all hazards, and submitted himself and all he loved to the Will of G.o.d, with that complete self-abnegation which is perhaps one of the best fruits of a pa.s.sionate Calvinism.

For a fisherman he was doubtless well-provided, but no one but his wife, Margot Ruleson, knew the exact sum of money lying to his credit in the Bank of Scotland; and Margot kept such knowledge strictly private. Ruleson owned his boat, and his cottage, and both were a little better and larger than the ordinary boat and cottage; while Margot was a woman who could turn a penny ten times over better than any other woman in the cottages of Culraine. Ruleson also had been blessed with six sons and one daughter, and with the exception of the youngest, all the lads had served their time in their father's boat, and even the one daughter was not excused a single duty that a fisher-girl ought to do.

Culraine was not a pretty village, though its cottages were all alike whitewashed outside, and roofed with heather. They had but two rooms generally--a but and a ben, with no pa.s.sage between. The majority were among the sand hills, but many were built on the lofty, sea-lashed rocks. James Ruleson's stood on a wide shelf, too high up for the highest waves, though they often washed away the wall of the garden, where it touched the sandy sh.o.r.e.

The house stood by itself. It had its own sea, and its own sky, and its own garden, the latter sloping in narrow, giddy paths to the very beach. Sure feet were needed among its vegetables, and its thickets of gooseberry and currant bushes, and its straying tangles of blackberry vines. Round the whole plot there was a low stone wall, covered with wall-flowers, wild thyme, rosemary, and house-leek.

A few beds around the house held roses and lilies, and other floral treasures, but these were so exclusively Margot's property, and Margot's adoration, that I do not think she would like me even to write about them. Sometimes she put a rosebud in the b.u.t.tonhole of her husband's Sunday coat, and sometimes Christina had a similar favor, but Margot was intimate with her flowers. She knew every one by a special name, and she counted them every morning. It really hurt her to cut short their beautiful lives, and her eldest son Norman, after long experience said: "If Mither cuts a flower, she'll ill to live wi'. I wouldna tine her good temper for a bit rosebud. It's a poor bargain."

One afternoon, early in the June of 1849, Christine Ruleson walked slowly up the narrow, flowery path of this mountain garden. She was heard before she was seen, for she was singing an east coast ballad, telling all the world around her, that she

--Cast her line in Largo bay, And fishes she caught nine; Three to boil, and three to fry, And three to bait the line.

So much she sang, and then she turned to the sea. The boat of a solitary fisherman, and a l.u.s.trously white bird, were lying quietly on the bay, close together, and a large ship with all her sails set was dropping lazily along to the south. For a few moments she watched them, and then continued her song.

She was tall and lovely, and browned and bloomed in the fresh salt winds. Her hair had been loosened by the breeze, and had partially escaped from her cap. She had a broad, white brow, and the dark blue eyes that dwelt beneath it were full of soul--not a cloud in them, only a soft, radiant light, shaded by eyelids deeply fringed, and almost transparent--eyelids that were eloquent--full of secrets. Her mouth was beautiful, her lips made for loving words--even little children wanted to kiss her. And she lived the very life of the sea.

Like it she was subject to ebb and flow. Her love for it was perhaps prenatal, it might even have driven her into her present incarnation.

When she came to the top of the cliff, she turned and gazed again at the sea. The sunshine then fell all over her, and her dress came into notice. It was simple enough, yet very effective--a white fluted cap, lying well back on her bright, rippling hair, long gold rings in her ears, and a vivid scarlet kerchief over her shoulders. Her skirt was of wide blue and gray stripes, but it was hardly noticeable, for whoever looked in Christine's face cared little about her dress. He could never tell what she wore.

As she stood in the sunshine, a young man ran out of the house to meet her--a pa.s.sing handsome youth, with his heart in his eager face and outstretched hands.

"Christine! Christine!" he cried. "Where at a' have you keepit yourself? I hae been watching and waiting for you, these three hours past."

"Cluny! You are crushing the bonnie flowers i' my hands, and I'm no thanking you for that."

"And my puir heart! It is atween your twa hands, and it's crushing it you are, day after day. Christine, it is most broke wi' the cruel grip o' longing and loving--and not a word o' hope or love to help it haud together."

"You should learn seasonable times, Cluny. It's few la.s.ses that can be bothered wi' lovers that come sae early. Women folk hae their hands full o' wark o' some kind, then."

"Ay, full o' flowers. They canna even find time to gie the grip o'

their hand to the lad that loves them, maist to the death throe."

"I'm not wanting any lad to love me to the death throe, and I'm not believing them, when they talk such-like nonsense. No indeed! The lad I love must be full o' life and _forthput_. He must be able to guide his boat, and throw and draw his nets single-handed--if needs be."

"I love you so! I love you so! I can do nothing else, Christine!"

"_Havers!_ Love sweetens life, but it's a long way from being life itsel'. Many a man, and many a woman, loses their love, but they dinna fling their life awa' because o' that misfortune--unless they have no kindred to love, and no G.o.d to fear."

"You can't tell how it is, Christine. You never were i' love, I'm thinking."

"I'm thankfu' to say I never was; and from all I see, and hear, I am led to believe that being in love isna a superior state o' life. I'm just hoping that what you ca' love isna of a catching quality."

"I wish it was! Maybe then, you might catch love from me. Oh Christine, give me a hope, dear la.s.s. I canna face life without it.

'Deed I can not."

"I might do such a thing. Whiles women-folk are left to themsel's, and then it goes ill wi' them;" and she sighed and shook her head, as if she feared such a possibility was within her own fate.

"What is it you mean? I'm seeking one word o' kindness from you, Christine."

Then she looked at him, and she did not require speech. Cluny dared to draw closer to her--to put his arm round her waist--to whisper such alluring words of love and promise, that she smiled and gave him a flower, and finally thought she might--perhaps--sometime--learn the lesson he would teach her, for, "This warld is fu' o' maybe's, Cluny,"

she said, "and what's the good o' being young, if we dinna expect miracles?"

"I'm looking for no miracle, Christine. I'm asking for what a man may win by a woman's favor. I hae loved you, Christine, since I was a bit laddie o' seven years auld. I'll love you till men carry me to the kirk yard. I'd die for your love. I'd live, and suffer a' things for it. La.s.sie! Dear, dear la.s.sie, dinna fling love like mine awa'.

There's every gude in it."

She felt his heart throbbing in his words, but ere she could answer them, her brother Neil called her three times, in a voice that admitted of no delay. "Good-by, Cluny!" she said hurriedly. "You ken Neil isna to be put off." Then she was gone, and Cluny, full of bewildered loving and anxious feelings, rushed at headlong speed down the steep and narrow garden path, to his grandmother's cottage on the sands.

Neil stood by a little pine table covered with books and papers. He was nearly twenty-one years old, and compared with his family was small in stature, lightly built, and dark in complexion. His hair was black, his eyes somberly gray, and full of calculation. His nose, lean and sharp, indicated selfish adherence to the realities of life, and the narrow nostrils positively accused him of timidity and caution.

His mouth was firm and discreet. Taken as a whole, his face was handsome, though lean and thoughtful; but his manner was less pleasant. It was that of a serious sn.o.b, who thinks there is a destiny before him. He had been petted and spoiled all his life long, and his speech and conduct were full of the unpleasant survivals of this treatment. It spoiled him, and grated on Christine's temperament, like grit in a fine salad.

He had never made a shilling in his life, he was the gentleman of the family, elected by the family to that position. In his boyhood he had been delicate, and quite unfit for the rough labor of the boats, but as he had developed an extraordinary love for books and learning, the minister had advised his dedication to the service of either the Law or the Gospel. To this proposal the whole household cheerfully, even proudly, agreed. To have an educated man among the Rulesons pleased everyone. They spoke together of the great Scotch chancellors, and the great Scotch clergy, and looked upon Neil Ruleson, by special choice and election, as destined in the future to stand high among Scotland's clergy or Scotland's lawyers.

For this end, during eleven years, all had given their share without stint or holdback. That Neil had finally chosen to become a Lord of the Law, and to sit on the Bench, rather than stand in the Pulpit, was a great disappointment to his father, who had stubbornly hoped his son would get the call no man can innocently refuse to answer. His mother and brothers were satisfied. Norman Ruleson had once seen the Lords ride in civic pomp and splendid attire to Edinburgh Parliament House, and he was never weary of describing the majesty of the judges in their wigs and gowns, and the ceremonials that attended every step of the administration of justice.

"And the big salary coming to the judges!" Normany always added--"the salary, and the visible honors arena to be lightlied, or made little o'. Compared wi' a minister's stipend, a judge's salary is stin-pen-dous! And they go wi' the best i' the land, and it isna anything o' a wonder, when a judge is made a lord. There was Lord Chancellor Campbell, born in Fife itsel', in the vera county town o' Cupar. I have seen the house next the Bell Inn where he was born, and his feyther was the minister o' Cupar. About the year 18----"

"You needna fash either us, or yoursel', Norman, wi' names and dates; it will be time in plenty, when you can add our lad to the list."

Margot at this hour was inclined to side with her husband. Margot believed in realities. She saw continually the honorable condition of the Scotch clergy; Norman's story about the royal state and power of the judges was like something read out of a book. However, now that Neil was in his last year of study, and looking forward to the certificate which would place him among men in such a desirable condition, she would not darken his hopes, nor damp his ardor.

Neil's cla.s.ses in the Maraschal college at Aberdeen were just closed, but he was very busy preparing papers for their opening in September.