Christine: A Fife Fisher Girl. Barr Amelia E.
do that, but I’m no sure that you will win your case, wanting them. I thought they were sort o’ necessitated; but crooked and straight is the law, and it is well known that what it calls truth today, may be far from truth tomorrow.”
“What ails you today, Christine? Has the law injured you in any way?”
“Ay, it played us a’ a trick. When you took up the books, and went to the big school i’ the toun to prepare for Aberdeen, we all o’ us thought it was King’s College you were bound for, and then when you were ready for Aberdeen, you turned your back on King’s College, and went to the Maraschal.”
“King’s College is for the theology students. The Maraschal is the law school.”
“I knew that. We a’ know it. The Maraschal spelt a big disappointment to feyther and mysel’.”
“I have some work to finish, Christine, and I will be under an obligation if you will leave me now. You are in an upsetting temper, and I think you have fairly forgotten yourself.”
“Well I’m awa, but mind you! When the fishing is on, I canna be at your bidding. I’m telling you!”
“Just so.”
“I’ll hae no time for you, and your writing. I’ll be helping Mither wi’ the fish, from the dawn to the dark.”
“Would you do that?”
“Would I not?”
She was at the open door of the room as she spoke, and Neil said with provoking indifference: “If you are seeing Father, you might speak to him anent the books I am needing.”
“I’ll not do it! What are you feared for? You’re parfectly unreasonable, parfectly ridic-lus!” And she emphasized her assertions by her decided manner of closing the door.
On going into the yard, she found her father standing there, and he was looking gravely over the sea. “Feyther!” she said, and he drew her close to his side, and looked into her lovely face with a smile.
“Are you watching for the fish, Feyther?”
“Ay, I am! They are long in coming this year.”
“Every year they are long in coming. Perhaps we are impatient.”
“Just sae. We are a’ ready for them – watching for them – Cluny went to Cupar Head to watch. He has a fine sea-sight. If they are within human ken, he will spot them, nae doubt. What hae you been doing a’ the day lang?”
“I hae been writing for Neil. He is uncommon anxious about this session, Feyther.”
“He ought to be.”
“He is requiring some expensive books, and he is feared to name them to you; he thinks you hae been sae liberal wi’ him already – if I was you, Feyther, I would be asking him – quietly when you were by your twa sel’s – if he was requiring anything i’ the way o’ books.”
“He has had a big sum for that purpose already, Christine.”
“I know it, Feyther, but I’m not needing to tell you that a man must hae the tools his wark is requiring, or he canna do it. If you set Neil to mak’ a table, you’d hae to gie him the saw, and the hammer, and the full wherewithals, for the makin’ o’ a table; and when you are for putting him among the Edinbro’ Law Lords, you’ll hae to gie him the books that can teach him their secrets. Isn’t that fair, Feyther?”
“I’m not denying it.”
“Weel then, you’ll do the fatherly thing, and seeing the laddie is feared to ask you for the books, you’ll ask him, ‘Are you wanting any books for the finishing up, Neil?’ You see it is just here, Feyther, he could borrow the books – ”
“Hang borrowing!”
“Just sae, you are quite right, Feyther. Neil says if he has to borrow, he’ll never get the book when he wants it, and that he would never get leave to keep it as long as he needed. Now Neil be to hae his ain books, Feyther, he will mak’ good use o’ them, and we must not fail him at the last hour.”
“Wha’s talking o’ failing him? Not his feyther, I’m sure! Do I expect to catch herrings without the nets and accessories? And I ken that I’ll not mak’ a lawyer o’ Neil, without the Maraschal and the books it calls for.”
“You are the wisest and lovingest o’ feythers. When you meet Neil, and you twa are by yoursel’s, put your hand on Neil’s shoulder, and ask Neil, ‘Are you needing any books for your last lessons?’”
“I’ll do as you say, dear lass. It is right I should.”
“Nay, but he should ask you to do it. If it was mysel’, I could ask you for anything I ought to have, but Neil is vera shy, and he kens weel how hard you wark for your money. He canna bear to speak o’ his necessities, sae I’m speaking the word for him.”
“Thy word goes wi’ me – always. I’ll ne’er say nay to thy yea,” and he clasped her hand, and looked with a splendid smile of affection into her beautiful face. An English father would have certainly kissed her, but Scotch fathers rarely give this token of affection. Christine did not expect it, unless it was her birthday, or New Year’s morning.
It was near the middle of July, when the herring arrived. Then early one day, Ruleson, watching the sea, smote his hands triumphantly, and lifting his cap with a shout of welcome, cried —
“There’s our boat! Cluny is sailing her! He’s bringing the news! They hae found the fish! Come awa’ to the pier to meet them, Christine.”
With hurrying steps they took the easier landward side of descent, but when they reached the pier there was already a crowd of men and women there, and the Sea Gull, James Ruleson’s boat, was making for it. She came in close-hauled to the wind, with a double reef in her sail. She came rushing across the bay, with the water splashing her gunwale. Christine kept her eyes upon the lad at the tiller, a handsome lad, tanned to the temples. His cheeks were flushed, and the wind was in his hair, and the sunlight in his eyes, and he was steering the big herring boat into the harbor.
The men were soon staggering down to the boats with the nets, coiling them up in apparently endless fashion, and as they were loaded they were very hard to get into the boats, and harder still to get out. Just as the sun began to set, the oars were dipped, and the boats swept out of the harbor into the bay, and there they set their red-barked sails, and stood out for the open sea.
Ruleson’s boat led the way, because it was Ruleson’s boat that had found the fish, and Christine stood at the pier-edge cheering her strong, brave father, and not forgetting a smile and a wave of her hand for the handsome Cluny at the tiller. To her these two represented the very topmost types of brave and honorable humanity. The herring they were seeking were easily found, for it was the Grand Shoal, and it altered the very look of the ocean, as it drove the water before it in a kind of flushing ripple. Once, as the boats approached them, the shoal sank for at least ten minutes, and then rose in a body again, reflecting in the splendid sunset marvelous colors and silvery sheen.
With a sweet happiness in her heart, Christine went slowly home. She did not go into the village, she walked along the shore, over the wet sands to the little gate, which opened upon their garden. On her way she passed the life-boat. It was in full readiness for launching at a moment’s notice, and she went close to it, and patted it on the bow, just as a farmer’s daughter would pat the neck of a favorite horse.
“Ye hae saved the lives of men,” she said. “God bless ye, boatie!” and she said it again, and then stooped and looked at a little brass plate screwed to the stern locker, on which were engraved these words:
Put your trust in God,
And do your best.
And as she climbed the garden, she thought of the lad who had left Culraine thirty years ago, and gone to Glasgow to learn ship building, and who had given this boat to his native village out of his first savings. “And it has been a lucky boat,” she said softly, “every year it has saved lives,” and then she remembered the