CHRISTINE AND THE DOMINE
I remember the black wharves and the boats,
And the sea tides tossing free;
And the fishermen with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
The Domine is a good man. If you only meet him on the street, and
he speaks to you, you go for the rest of the day with your head
up.
One day leads to another, and even in the little, hidden-away village
of Culraine, no two days were exactly alike. Everyone was indeed
preparing for the great fishing season, and looking anxiously for its
arrival, but if all were looking for the same event, it had for its
outcome in every heart a different end, or desire. Thus, James Ruleson
hoped its earnings would complete the sum required to build a cottage
for his daughter's marriage portion, and Margot wanted the money,
though not for the same object. Norman had a big doctor's bill to pay,
and Eneas thought of a two weeks' holiday, and a trip to Edinburgh and
Glasgow; while Neil was anxious about an increase in his allowance.
He had his plea all ready--he wanted a new student's gown of scarlet
flannel, and some law books, which, he said, everyone knew were double
the price of any other books. It was his last session, and he did hope
that he would be let finish it creditably.
He talked to Christine constantly on the subject, and she promised to
stand up for the increase. "Though you ken, Neil," she added, "that
you hae had full thirty pounds a session, and that is a lot for
feyther to tak' out o' the sea; forbye Mither was aye sending you a
box full o' eggs and bacon, and fish and oatmeal, ne'er forgetting the
cake that men-folk all seem sae extra fond o'. And you yoursel' were
often speaking o' the lads who paid their fees and found their living
out o' thirty pounds a session. Isn't that sae?"
"I do not deny the fact, but let me tell you how they manage it. They
have a breakfast of porridge and milk, and then they are away for four
hours' Greek and Latin. Then they have two pennyworths of haddock and
a few potatoes for dinner, and back to the college again, for more
dead languages, and mathematics. They come back to their bit room in
some poor, cold house, and if they can manage it, have a cup of tea
and some oat cake, and they spend their evenings learning their
lessons for the next day, by the light of a tallow candle."
"They are brave, good lads, and I dinna wonder they win all, an' mair,
than what they worked for. The lads o' Maraschal College are fine
scholars, and the vera pith o' men. The hard wark and the frugality
are good for them, and, Neil, we are expecting you to be head and
front among them."
"Then I must have the books to help me there."
"That stands to reason; and if you'll gie me your auld gown, I'll buy
some flannel, and mak' you a new one, just like it."
"The college has its own tailor, Christine. I believe the gowns
are difficult to make. And what is more, I shall be obligated to have
a new kirk suit. You see I go out with Ballister a good deal--very
best families and all that--and I must have the clothes conforming
to the company. Ballister might--nae doubt would--lend me the
money--but----"
"What are you talking anent? Borrowing is sorrowing, aye and shaming,
likewise. I'm fairly astonished at you naming such a thing! If you are
put to a shift like that, Christine can let you hae the price o' a
suit o' clothing."
"O Christine, if you would do that, it would be a great favor, and a
great help to me. I'll pay you back, out of the first money I make.
The price o' the books I shall have to coax from Mother."
"You'll hae no obligation to trouble Mother. Ask your feyther for the
books you want. He would be the vera last to grudge them to you. Speak
to him straight, and bold, and you'll get the siller wi' a smile and a
good word."
"If _you_ would ask him for me."
"I will not!"
"Yes, you will, Christine. I have reasons for not doing so."
"You hae just one reason--simple cowardice. O Man! If you are a coward
anent asking a new suit o' clothes for yoursel', what kind o' a lawyer
will you mak' for ither folk?"
"You know how Father is about giving money."
"Ay, Feyther earns his money wi' his life in his hands. He wants to be
sure the thing sought is good and necessary. Feyther's right. Now my
money was maistly gi'en me, I can mair easily risk it."
"There is no risk in my promise to pay."
"You havna any sure contract wi' Good Fortune, Neil, and it will be
good and bad wi' you, as it is wi' ither folk."
"I do not approve of your remarks, Christine. When people are talking
of the fundamentals--and surely money is one of them--they ought to
avoid irritating words."
"You'll mak' an extraordinar lawyer, if you 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 well-known melody,
and sang joyously--
"Weel may the keel row,
And better may she speed,
Weel may the keel row,
That wins the bairnies' bread.
"Weel may the keel row,
Amid the stormy strife,
Weel may the keel row
That saves the sailor's life.
"God bless the Life-Boat!
In the stormy strife,
Saving drowning men,
On the seas o' Fife.
"Weel may her keel row--"
Then with a merry, inward laugh she stopped, and said with pretended
displeasure: "Be quiet, Christine! You're makin' poetry again, and you
shouldna do the like o' that foolishness. Neil thinks it isna becoming
for women to mak' poetry--he says men lose their good sense when they
do it, and women! He hadna the words for their shortcomings in the
matter. He could only glower and shake his head, and look up at the
ceiling, which he remarked needed a coat o' clean lime and water.
Weel, I suppose Neil is right! There's many a thing not becomin' to
women, and nae doubt makin' poetry up is among them."
When she entered the cottage, she found the Domine, Dr. Magnus
Trenabie, drinking a cup of tea at the fireside. He had been to the
pier to see the boats sail, for all the men of his parish were near
and dear to him. He was an extraordinary man--a scholar who had taken
many degrees and honors, and not exhausted his mental powers in
getting them--a calm, sabbatic mystic, usually so quiet that his
simple presence had a sacramental efficacy--a man who never reasoned,
being full of faith; a man enlightened by his heart, not by his
brain.
Being spiritually of celestial race, he was lodged in a suitable body.
Its frame was Norse, its blood Celtic. He appeared to be a small man,
when he stood among the gigantic fishermen who obeyed him like little
children, but he was really of average height, graceful and slender.
His head was remarkably long and deep, his light hair straight and
fine. The expression of his face was usually calm and still, perhaps a
little cold, but there was every now and then a look of flame.
Spiritually, he had a great, tender soul quite happy to dwell in a
little house. Men and women loved him, he was the angel on the hearth
of every home in Culraine.
When Christine entered the cottage, the atmosphere of the sea was
around and about her. The salt air was in her clothing, the fresh wind
in her loosened hair, and she had a touch of its impetuosity in the
hurry of her feet, the toss of her manner, the ring of her voice.
"O Mither!" she cried, then seeing the Domine, she made a little
curtsey, and spoke to him first. "I was noticing you, Sir, among the
men on the pier. I thought you were going with them this night."
"They have hard work this night, Christine, and my heart tells me they
will be wanting to say little words they would not like me to hear."
"You could hae corrected them, Sir."
"I am not caring to correct them, tonight. Words often help work, and
tired fishers, casting their heavy nets overboard, don't do that work
without a few words that help them. The words are not sinful, but they
might not say them if I was present."
"I know, Sir," answered Margot. "I hae a few o' such words always
handy. When I'm hurried and flurried, I canna help them gettin'
outside my lips--but there's nae ill in them--they just keep me going.
I wad gie up, wanting them."
"When soldiers, Margot, are sent on a forlorn hope of capturing a
strong fort, they go up to it cheering. When our men launch the big
life-boat, how do they do it, Christine?"
"Cheering, Sir!"
"To be sure, and when weary men cast the big, heavy nets, they find
words to help them. I know a lad who always gets his nets overboard
with shouting the name of the girl he loves. He has a name for her
that nobody but himself can know, or he just shouts 'Dearie,' and with
one great heave, the nets are overboard." And as he said these words
he glanced at Christine, and her heart throbbed, and her eyes beamed,
for she knew that the lad was Cluny.
"I was seeing our life-boat, as I came home," she said, "and I was
feeling as if the boat could feel, and if she hadna been sae big, I
would hae put my arms round about her. I hope that wasna any kind o'
idolatry, Sir?"
"No, no, Christine. It is a feeling of our humanity, that is wide as
the world. Whatever appears to struggle and suffer, appears to have
life. See how a boat bares her breast to the storm, and in spite of
winds and waves, wins her way home, not losing a life that has been
committed to her. And nothing on earth can look more broken-hearted
than a stranded boat, that has lost all her men. Once I spent a few
weeks among the Hovellers--that is, among the sailors who man the
life-boats stationed along Godwin Sands; and they used to call their
boats 'darlings' and 'beauties' and praise them for behaving well."
"Why did they call the men Hovellers?" asked Margot. "That word seems
to pull down a sailor. I don't like it. No, I don't."
"I have been told, Margot, that it is from the Danish word,
_overlever_, which means a deliverer."
"I kent it wasna a decent Scotch word," she answered, a little
triumphantly; "no, nor even from the English. Hoveller! You couldna
find an uglier word for a life-saver, and if folk canna be satisfied
wi' their ain natural tongue, and must hae a foreign name, they might
choose a bonnie one. Hoveller! Hoveller indeed! It's downright wicked,
to ca' a sailor a hoveller."
The Domine smiled, and continued--"Every man and woman and child has
loved something inanimate. Your mother, Christine, loves her wedding
ring, your father loves his boat, you love your Bible, I love the
silver cup that holds the sacramental wine we drink 'in remembrance
of Him';" and he closed his eyes a moment, and was silent. Then he
gave his cup to Christine. "No more," he said, "it was a good drink.
Thanks be! Now our talk must come to an end. I leave blessing with
you."
They stood and watched him walk into the dusk in silence, and then
Margot said, "Where's Neil?"
"Feyther asked him to go wi' them for this night, and Neil didna like
to refuse. Feyther has been vera kind to him, anent his books an' the
like. He went to pleasure Feyther. It was as little as he could do."
"And he'll come hame sea-sick, and his clothes will be wet and
uncomfortable as himsel'."
"Weel, that's his way, Mither. I wish the night was o'er."
"Tak' patience. By God's leave the day will come."