THE FISHERMAN'S FAIR
The winds go up and down upon the sea,
And some they lightly clasp, entreating kindly,
And waft them to the port where they would be:
And other ships they buffet long and blindly.
The cloud comes down on the great sinking deep,
And on the shore, the watchers stand and weep.
So the busy fishing season passed away, and was a very fortunate one,
until it was nearly over. Then there were several days of foggy,
dismal weather, and one night when the nets were down a sudden violent
storm drove from the north, and the boats, being at that time mostly
open boats, shipped water at every sea. The greatest hurry and
confusion followed, and they were finally compelled to cut the nets
adrift, glad indeed to lose all, if they could only make the first
shelter. And mothers and wives, standing helpless at the little
windows of their cottages, watched the storm, while the men they loved
were fighting the furious tempest in the black night.
"God help my men!" prayed Margot. She was weeping like a child, but
yet in her anguish full of faith in God's mercy, and looking
trustfully to Him to send her men home again. "I'll ne'er fret for
the nets," she said, "they'll hav' to go, nae doubt o' that. Let them
go! But oh, Feyther i' heaven, send hame my men folk!"
Ah! Women who spend such nights may well call caller herrin' "the
lives o' men"!
In the misty daylight, the men and the boats came into harbor, but the
nets in every boat--each net about eight hundred and fifty yards
long--were totally lost. However, the herring season was practically
over. Indeed, the men were at the point of exhaustion, for the total
take had been very large, and there is scarcely any human labor more
severe on the physical endurance, than the fishing for caller
herrin'.
It was just at this time that Neil Ruleson had to leave Culraine for
Aberdeen. He was to finish his course at the Maraschal College this
year, and never before had he gone there so well provided, and
never before had he felt so poor. For though he had received the
unlooked-for sum of two hundred pounds for his services, he felt
it to be unequal to his ambitious requirements, six weeks at
Ballister House having taught him to regard many little comforts as
absolute necessities.
"I am very nearly a lawyer now," he reflected, "a professional man,
and I must try and look like it, and live like it. The bare room and
unfashionable clothing of the past must be changed to more respectable
quarters, and more appropriate garments." Of course he knew that
Christine would not permit him to injure his future fine prospects,
but he had promised to repay the ninety pounds he had borrowed from
her out of his first earnings, and he felt that the money was now due,
and that he ought to pay it. But if he did so, he must simplify all
his plans, and he had taken so much pleasure and pains in arranging
the surroundings of his last session, that he was exceedingly loth to
surrender even the least important of them.
While he was packing his trunk, and deliberating on this subject, the
great storm came, and his father barely saved the boat and the lives
of the men in her. The nets were gone, and his mother asked him
plainly if he could not help his father to replace them.
"I will do so gladly, Mother," he answered, "when I have paid my
college fees, and the like, I will see what I can spare--there is
Christine's money!" he continued, in a troubled, thoughtful
manner--and Margot answered,
"Ay, to be sure. If Christine hadna loaned you her money, it would hae
been at her feyther's will and want, this moment, but if you are going
to keep your word, and pay Christine out o' your first earnings,
there's nae need to talk wi' you. Christine will help your feyther and
proud and glad to do the same."
"You see, Mother, it is nearly the end of things with me at Aberdeen,
and it would be hard if my future was scrimped at its beginning. That
is what Ballister thinks. 'Neil,' he said to me, 'you will have to
speak before the public--lawyers and people of full standing--and you
must have the dress that is proper and fitting.'"
"Weel, your feyther will hae to get new nets--if he is to mak' bread
for the lave o' us."
"The herring season is over now, and there is no immediate expense
regarding it."
"You are much mista'en, and ye ken it fine! The barrels in which the
fish are packed are to pay for, and the women who packed them are not
fully paid. The coopers who closed the barrels, and the Fishery
Office, hae yet to send in their bills."
"The Fishery Office! What have we to do with the Fishery Office? It is
a government affair."
"Mebbe sae. But the barrels canna be shipped until an officer frae the
Fishery Office puts the crown brand on every barrel. Do you think the
man does that for naething?"
"I never heard of such a thing."
"Weel, it has to be done, whether Neil Ruleson has heard o' the thing
or not."
"What for?"
"The crown isna branded on any barrel unless the fish in it are fine,
fresh, and unbroken. But as soon as the barrels get the crown, they
can be shipped to foreign ports, mostly to Stettin."
"Why Stettin?"
"I don't know. Ask your feyther. You are just making a put-aff wi'
your questions. Answer me the one question I asked yoursel'--What can
ye do to help your feyther? Answer me that."
"Father will not use nets until the next herring season--a whole year
away--in the winter, he always does line fishing. With your help,
Christine can weave new nets before they are needed."
"I see weel that you dinna intend to pay your debt to Christine, nor
yet to help your feyther."
"Father has not asked me for help. Everyone knows that father is well
fore-handed."
"O lad, the dear auld man barely saved the boat and the lives she
carried! He has been roughly handled by winds and waves, and may hae
to keep his bed awhile, and your brither Eneas is that hurt and
bruised, he will ne'er go fishing again, while your brither Norman has
a broken arm, an' a wife that has gane into hystericals about the lost
nets. You'd think it was her man she was screaming for. And Fae and
Tamsen waited too lang, and went o'er the boat wi' their nets, an'
there's ithers that hae broken limbs, or joints out o' place, or
trouble o' some sort."
"I'm very sorry, Mother. If I could do any good to the general ill, I
would do it, but if I ruined all my future life I do not see that I
could help anyone. I must be just, before I am generous."
"To be sure. I hope you'll try to be just, for I am vera certain
you'll ne'er be generous; and if you are just, you'll pay your sister
back her ninety pounds."
"I will have a conversation with Christine, at once. Where is she?"
"The Domine sent for her early, she has been helping him wi' the hurt
folk, all day long. What hae you been doing?"
"I went down to the pier, to look after the boat. I knew father would
be anxious about it. Then I had to go into the town. I was expecting
an important letter, and the doctor was needing some medicines, and I
brought them home with me. In one way, or another, the miserable day
has gone. I hope Father is not much hurt."
"It's hard to hurt your feyther. His head keeps steady, and a steady
head keeps the body as it should be--but he's strained, and kind o'
shocked. The Domine gied him a powder, and he's sleeping like a baby.
He'll be a' right in a day or twa."
"I would like to sit by him tonight, and do all I can, Mother."
"You may well do that, Neil; but first go and bring your sister hame.
I wouldn't wonder if you might find her in Fae's cottage. His puir,
silly wife let the baby fa', when she heard that her man and his boat
was lost; and I heard tell Christine had ta'en the bairn in charge. It
would be just like her. Weel, it's growing to candle lighting, and
I'll put a crusie fu' o' oil in feyther's room, and that will light
you through the night."
Neil found his sister sitting with Judith Macpherson and her grandson,
Cluny. Cluny was not seriously hurt, but no man comes out of a
life-and-death fight with the sea, and feels physically the better for
it. Such tragic encounters do finally lift the soul into the region of
Fearlessness, or into the still higher condition of Trustfulness, but
such an education--like that of Godliness--requires line upon line,
precept upon precept.
James Ruleson had been perfectly calm, even when for a few minutes it
seemed as if men, as well as nets, must go to death and destruction;
but James had been meeting the God "whose path is on the Great
Waters," for more than forty years, and had seen there, not only His
wonders, but His mercies, and he had learned to say with David,
"Though He slay me, yet will I put my trust in Him."
Judith Macpherson was of a different spirit. She was a passionate
old woman, and the sea had taken her husband and five sons, and her
only daughter. Accordingly she hated the sea. That some day it would
be "no more" was her triumphant consolation. She delighted in
preaching to it this sentence of annihilation. If Judith was seen
standing on the cliffs, with her arms uplifted, and her white head
thrown backward, the village knew she was reminding its proud waves of
their doom of utter destruction. The passionate flaming language
of her denunciations will not bear transcribing, but the oldest
sailors said it was "awesome and no' to be listened to, or spoken
o'." That afternoon she had been seen on the sands, in one of her
frenzies of hatred, and when Neil entered her cottage, she was still
rocking herself to and fro, and muttering threats and curses.
She had attended skillfully and tenderly to Cluny's bruises and
nervous excitement, but he was frightened and depressed by her mood,
and he begged Christine to stay wi' him an hour or twa. And Christine
had been willing. Judith was always kind to her, and the handsome lad
with his boyish adoration was at least a settled feature of her life.
This night she let him tell her all his plans for their happy future,
and did not feel any pressure of duty to deny his hopes. He had just
come out of the very jaws of Death. What could she do, but let him
dream his dream and have his say?
However, in all troubles, either personal or public, it is a great
thing to be still, and to whisper to the soul--"This, too, will pass!"
It is behind us today, tomorrow it will be still farther away. In a
week we shall not talk of it, in a month it will have passed from
Life, and belong only to Memory. There is scarcely any sorrow that may
not be greatly helped and soothed by this reflection. For God does not
willingly afflict the children of men, and it is He Himself, that has
appointed Time to be the consoler of Sorrow.
By the end of October, the village was in its normal mood and
condition. All the expenses of the fishing season had been paid, and
the profits satisfactorily ascertained and divided. Great quantities
of cord had been procured, and the women and the older men were busily
making nets for the next season, while the younger men were ready for
the winter's line-fishing. There was an air of content and even of
happiness over the small community. It was realized that, in spite of
the storm, the season had been good, and the Domine had reminded them
on the last Sabbath, that they had not yet rendered thanks to God, nor
even visibly told each other how good God had been to them.
For it was the custom of Culraine to keep a day of thanks and
rejoicing when the herring had been secured, and to send word to all
the near-by fishers to come and rejoice with them. They began now to
prepare for this festival, and in this preparation were greatly
assisted by gifts from Ballister House. Neil had gone back to the
Maraschal, but Angus was still at Ballister. He had been royally
generous to the village in its distress, had supplied the Domine with
necessary drugs and materials, and had seen to it that the injured had
those little luxuries of food which tempt the convalescent. He was
still more eager to help the fishers in their thanksgiving, Margot
Ruleson being the authorized distributor of all his gifts, as she was
also the director of all concerning the affair.
This _foy_, or fair, was to be kept on the thirty-first of October,
embracing particularly the Hallowe'en night so dear to the peasantry
of Scotland. The Domine had selected this date, possibly because he
wished to prevent its usual superstitious observance. But though some
old men and women doubtless lighted their Hallowe'en fires, and baked
their Hallowe'en cake, with the usual magical ceremonies, the large
majority were far too busy preparing for an actual and present
pleasure, to trouble themselves about prophesying spells and charms.
The day was opened by a short address to the people assembled in the
old kirk. About thirty minutes covered the simple ceremony. First the
Domine stood up, and the people stood up with him, and all together
they recited aloud the jubilant thirty-fourth psalm. Then the Domine
said,
"Sit down, friends, and take heed to what I say. I have no sermon for
you today. I have no sins to charge you with, and to beg you to
forsake. I have just one message. It is three words long. 'God is
Love!' Whatever you hear, whatever you do, no matter what happens to
you, remember that God is Love! You are heritage-born to the sea, but
the way of the Lord is through the Great Waters. God must see you in
your struggles, and God must love the patient, brave, sailormen.
Christ showed you special favors. He might have chosen carpenters, but
he chose fishermen. And for seeing God's wonders on the deep sea, you
may be the sons and heirs of the prophet Jonas. Also,
"The church is like unto a ship:
The Scriptures are the enclosing net
And men the fishers are!
Well, then, as often as you come unto a sermon, consider how God by
his preachers trawleth for your souls. Friends, in all times of your
joy and your sorrow, you have the key to God's council chamber, and to
God's mercy chamber. It is just 'Our Father,' and the few blessed
words that follow it. There is little need for long talk. This is the
day you have set for thanksgiving. Rejoice therein! God is as well
pleased with your happiness, as he was and is with your good, brave
work. The hard winter days wear on. Make this day a memory to brighten
them. Amen."
There was a considerable number of visitors from fishing villages as
far south as Largo, going from house to house, talking over old
seasons with old comrades, and there were the sound of violins
everywhere, and the laughter of children, in their Sunday clothes,
playing in the streets. Even sorrowful Faith Balcarry was in a new
dress, and was at least helping others to be happy. Indeed, it was
Faith who suddenly burst into the Hall when the decorations were
nearly finished, and cried, "Surely you'll show the flags o' the lads'
boaties! They'll feel hurt if you slight their bits o' canvas! It is
most like slighting themsel's." She had her arms full of these bits of
canvas, and the men decorating the Fishers' Hall seized them
triumphantly, and told Faith they were just what they wanted; and so
made Faith for once in her sad life a person helpful and of
importance. Then in twenty minutes the red and blue and white ensigns
were beautifully disposed among the green of larch and laurel, and the
glory of marigolds and St. Michael's daisies, and of holly oaks of
every brilliant color.
When the sun was setting Angus looked in. Everyone but Christine and
Faith had finished his work and gone away. Faith was brushing up the
scattered leaves from the floor, Christine was standing on the top
step of the ladder, setting her father's flag in a halo of marigolds.
He watched her without speaking until she turned, then the swift glory
of her smile, and the joy of her surprise was a revelation. He had not
dreamed before that she was so beautiful. He said he was hungry, and
he hoped Christine would not send him all the way to Ballister for
something to eat. Then what could Christine do but ask him to dinner?
And she had already asked Faith. So he walked between Christine and
Faith up to Ruleson's cottage. And the walk through the village was so
exhilarating, he must have forgotten he was hungry, even if he was
really so. There was music everywhere, there were groups of beautiful
women, already dressed in their gayest gowns and finest ornaments,
there were equal groups of handsome young fishermen, in their finest
tweed suits, with flowing neckties of every resplendent color--there
was such a sense of pleasure and content in the air, that everyone
felt as if he were breathing happiness.
And Margot's welcome was in itself a tonic, if anybody had needed one.
Her table was already set, she was "only waiting for folks to find out
they wanted their dinner--the dinner itsel' was waitin' and nane the
better o' it."
Ruleson came in as she was speaking, and he welcomed the Master of
Ballister with true Scotch hospitality. They fell into an easy
conversation on politics, and Margot told Christine and Faith to mak'
themsel's fit for company, and to be quick anent the business, or she
wadna keep three folk waiting on a couple o' lasses.
In half an hour both girls came down, dressed in white. Christine had
loaned Faith a white frock, and a string of blue beads, and a broad
blue sash. She had arranged her hair prettily, and made the girl feel
that her appearance was of consequence. And light came into Faith's
eyes, and color to her cheeks, and for once she was happy, whether she
knew it or not.
Christine had intended to wear a new pink silk frock, with all its
pretty accessories, but a beautiful natural politeness forbade it.
Faith was so abnormally sensitive, she knew she would spoil the girl's
evening if she outdressed her. So she also put on a white muslin gown,
made in the modest fashion of the early Victorian era. Some lace and
white satin ribbons softened it, and she had in her ears her long gold
rings, and round her throat her gold beads, and amidst her beautiful
hair large amber combs, that looked as if they had imprisoned the
sunshine.
Margot was a good cook, and the dinner was an excellent one,
prolonged--as Margot thought--beyond all reasonable length, by a
discussion, between Ruleson and Angus, of the conservative policy.
Ruleson smoked his pipe after dinner, and kept up the threep, and the
girls put out of sight the used china, and the meat and pastries left,
and Margot put on her usual Sabbath attire--a light-gray silk dress, a
large white collar, and a borderless cap of lace over her dark hair.
The indispensable bit of color was, in her case, supplied by a vivid
scarlet shawl of Chinese crepe, one of those heavily embroidered
shawls of dazzling color, which seem in these latter days to have
disappeared.
It was getting near to seven o'clock, when they entered the hall and
found it already full and happy. They had not thought it necessary to
wait in whispering silence, until the music came and opened the
entertainment. They possessed among themselves many good story
tellers, and they were heartily laughing in chorus at some comic
incident which a fisherman was relating, when the Ruleson party
arrived.
Then there was one long, loud, unanimous cry for Christine Ruleson,
for Christine was preeminent as a vive-voce story teller, a rare art
even among the nations of Europe. She nodded and smiled, and without
any affectation of reluctance, but with a sweet readiness to give
pleasure, went at once to the platform, and as easily, and as
naturally as if she were telling it at her home fireside, she raised
her hand for attention, and said:
* * * * *
"_The Wreck of the Grosvenor_
"The _Grosvenor_, an East Indiaman, homeward bound, went to pieces on
the coast of Caffraria. There were a hundred and thirty-five souls on
board, and they resolved to cross the trackless desert to the Dutch
settlements at the Cape of Good Hope. A solitary child was among the
passengers, a boy of seven years old, who had no relation on board,
and when he saw the party beginning to move away, he cried after some
member of it, who had been kind to him. The child's cry went to every
heart. They accepted him as a sacred charge.
"By turns they carried him through the deep sand and the long grass.
They pushed him across broad rivers on a little raft. They shared with
him such fish as they found to eat. Beset by lions, by savages, by
hunger and death in ghastly forms, they never--O Father in heaven! Thy
name be blessed for it! they never forgot the child. The captain and
his faithful coxswain sat down together to die, the rest go on for
their lives--but they take the child with them. The carpenter, his
chief friend, dies from eating, in his hunger, poisonous berries; the
steward assumed the sacred guardianship of the boy. He carried him in
his arms, when he himself was weak and suffering. He fed him, when he
was griped with hunger. He laid his little white face against his
sun-burned breast. He soothed him in all his suffering.
"Then there came a time when both were ill, and they begged their
wretched companions--now very few in number--to wait for them one day.
They waited two days. On the morning of the third day, they moved
softly about preparing to resume their journey. The child was sleeping
by the fire, and they would not wake him until the last moment. The
moment comes, the fire is dying--the child is dead!
"His faithful friend staggers on for a few days, then lies down in the
desert and dies. What shall be said to these two men, who through all
extremities loved and guarded this Little Child?"
* * * * *
Christine had noticed the Domine rise, and she pointedly addressed
this question to him, and he understood her wish, and lifting up his
hands and his voice, he cried out triumphantly:
"They shall be raised up with the words--'Inasmuch as ye have done it
unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me!' These good men," he
continued, "were men of the sea, Mariners of England,
"That guard our native seas,
Whose flag has braved a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!"
The Domine might have continued, but there was a sudden thrill of
enchanting violins, the door was flung open, and the magical notes of
a foursome reel filled the room, and set the feet of all tapping the
floor, and made all faces radiant with anticipation. The good man then
realized that it was not his hour, and he sat down, and watched the
proceedings for a few minutes. Then he saw James Ruleson take his
wife's hand, and watched their first steps in the joyous reel, and he
was satisfied. If the dancing was under Ruleson's control, he knew all
would be done decently and in order, and he went away so quietly that
his absence was not noticed for some time.
Now, if the dancing that followed was like some of our dancing of
today, I should pass it with slight notice, or it might be, with
earnest disapproval, but it was not. It was real dancing. It was not
waltzing, nor tangoing, and it was as far as possible from the
undressed posturing called classical dancing. Everyone was modestly
clothed, and had his shoes and stockings on. And naturally, and as a
matter of course, they obeyed the principle of real dancing, which is
articulation; that is, the foot strikes the ground with every accented
note of the music. This is how Goldsmith in "The Vicar of Wakefield"
shows us Olivia dancing--"her foot being as pat to the music, as its
echo."
All good dancing is beautiful, and it never requires immodesty, is
indeed spoiled by any movement in this direction. However, as my
fisher company danced modestly and gracefully, rendering naturally the
artistic demands of the music, there is no necessity to pursue the
subject. As the night wore on, the dancing became more enthusiastic,
and graceful gestures were flung in, and little inspiring cries flung
out, and often when the fiddles stopped, the happy feet went on for
several bars without the aid of music.
Thus alternately telling stories, singing, and dancing, they passed
the happy hours, mingling something of heart, and brain, and body, in
all they did; and the midnight found them unwearied and good-tempered.
Angus had behaved beautifully. Having made himself "Hail! Well met!"
with the company, he forgot for the time that he was Master of
Ballister, and entered into the happy spirit of the occasion with all
the natural gayety of youth.
As he had dined with Faith Balcarry, he danced with her several times;
and no one could tell the pride and pleasure in the girl's heart. Then
Christine introduced to her a young fisherman from Largo town, and he
liked Faith's slender form, and childlike face, and fell truly in love
with the lonely girl, and after this night no one ever heard Faith
complain that she had no one to love, and that no one loved her. This
incident alone made Christine very happy, for her heart said to her
that it was well worth while.
Cluny was the only dissatisfied person present, but then nothing would
have satisfied Cluny but Christine's undivided attention. She told him
he was "unreasonable and selfish," and he went home with his
grandmother, in a pet, and did not return.
"He's weel enough awa'," said Christine to Faith. "If he couldna leave
his bad temper at hame, he hadna ony right to bring it here."
Of course it was not possible for Christine to avoid all dancing with
Angus, but he was reasonable and obedient, and danced cheerfully with
all the partners she selected, and in return she promised to walk home
in his company. He told her it was "a miraculous favor," and indeed he
thought so. For never had she looked so bewilderingly lovely. Her
beauty appeared to fill the room, and the calm, confident authority
with which she ordered and decided events, touched him with admiring
astonishment. What she would become, when _he_ gave her the
opportunity, he could not imagine.
At nine o'clock there was a sideboard supper from a long table at one
side of the hall, loaded with cold meats, pastry, and cake. Every
young man took what his partner desired, and carried it to her. Then
when the women were served, the men helped themselves, and stood
eating and talking with the merry, chattering groups for a pleasant
half-hour, which gave to the last dances and songs even more than
their early enthusiasm. Angus waited on Christine and Faith, and
Faith's admirer had quite a flush of vanity, in supposing himself to
have cut the Master of Ballister out. He flattered himself thus, and
Faith let him think so, and Christine shook her head, and called him
"plucky and gay," epithets young men never object to, especially if
they know they are neither the one nor the other.
At twelve o'clock Ruleson spoke to the musicians, and the violins
dropped from the merry reel of "Clydeside Lasses" into the haunting
melody of "Caller Herrin'," and old and young stood up to sing it.
Margot started the "cry" in her clear, clarion-like voice; but young
and old joined in the imperishable song, in which the "cry" is
vocalized:
[Illustration: Music and Lyrics:
Who'll buy cal-ler her-rin'? They're twa a pen-ny twa a pen-ny, Who'll
buy cal-ler her-rin'? They're new come fra Loch fine. Come friends
sup-port the fish-er's trade. Wha still in yer'll earns his bread. While
'round our coast aft tem-pest tost. He drags for cal-ler her-rin'.
They're bon-nie fish, and dain-ty fa-ring. Buy my cal-ler her-rin'.
They're new come frae Loch-flae. Who'll buy my cal-ler her-rin'. There's
nought wi' them will stand com-par-ing. E'en they hae like dia-monds.
Their sides like sil-ver shine. Cal-ler her-rin', Cal-ler her-rin']
At one o'clock the Fishers' Hall was dark and still, and the echo of a
tender little laugh or song from some couple, who had taken the
longest way round for the nearest way home, was all that remained of
the mirth and melody of the evening. Angus and Christine sauntered
slowly through the village. The young man was then passionately
importunate in the protestations of his love. He wooed Christine with
all the honeyed words that men have used to the Beloved Woman, since
the creation. And Christine listened and was happy.
At length, however, he was obliged to tell her news he had delayed as
long as it was possible.
"Christine," he said. "Dear Christine, I am going with my Uncle
Ballister to the United States. We intend to see both the northern and
southern states, and in California shall doubtless find the ways and
means to cross over to China and Japan, and at Hongkong get passage
for India, and then----"
"And then whar next?"
"Through Europe to England. I dare say the journey will take us a
whole year."
"Mair likely twa or even three years. Whatna for are you going?"
"Because my uncle is going, and he is set on having me with him."
"I wouldn't wonder. Maybe he is going just for your sake. Weel I hope
you'll hae a brawly fine time, and come hame the better for it."
"I cannot tell how I am to do without seeing you, for a whole year."
"Folk get used to doing without, vera easy, if the want isn't siller.
Love isna a necessity."
"O, but it is! Dear Christine, it is the great necessity."
"Weel, I'm not believing it."
Then they were at the foot of the hill on which Ruleson's house stood,
and Christine said, "Your carriage is waiting for you, Angus, and you
be to bid me good night, here. I would rather rin up the hill by
mysel', and nae doubt the puir horses are weary standin' sae lang. Sae
good night, and good-by, laddie!"
"I shall not leave you, Christine, until I have seen you safely
home."
"I am at hame here. This is Ruleson's hill, and feyther and mither are
waiting up for me."
A few imperative words from Angus put a stop to the dispute, and he
climbed the hill with her. He went as slowly as possible, and told her
at every step how beautiful she was, and how entirely he loved her.
But Christine was not responsive, and in spite of his eloquent
tenderness, they felt the chill of their first disagreement. When they
came in sight of the house, they saw that it was dimly lit, and
Christine stood still, and once more bade him good-by.
Angus clasped both her hands in his. "My love! My love!" he said. "If
I spoke cross, forgive me."
"I hae naething to forgive. I owe you for mair pleasure and happiness,
than I can ever return."
"Give me one kiss of love and forgiveness, Christine. Then I will know
you love Angus"--and he tried gently to draw her closer to him. "Just
one kiss, darling."
"Na! Na," she answered. "That canna be. I'm a fisher-lass, and we hae
a law we dinna break--we keep our lips virgin pure, for the lad we
mean to marry."
"You are very hard and cruel. You send me away almost broken-hearted.
May I write to you?"
"If you'll tell me about a' the wonderfuls you see, I'll be gey glad
to hear from you."
"Then farewell, my love! Do not forget me!"
"It's not likely I'll forget you," and her voice trembled, as she
whispered "Farewell!" and gave him her hand. He stooped, and kissed
it. Then he turned away.
She watched him till in the dim distance she saw him raise his hat and
then disappear. Still she stood, until the roll of the carriage wheels
gradually became inaudible. Then she knew that she was weeping, and
she wiped her eyes, and turned them upon the light in the cottage
burning for her. And she thought tenderly of her lover, and whispered
to her heart--"If he had only come back! I might hae given him a kiss.
Puir laddie! Puir, dear laddie! His uncle has heard tell o' the
fisher-lassie, and he's ta'en him awa' from Christine--but he's his
ain master--sae it's his ain fault! Christine is o'er gude for anyone
who can be wiled awa' by man, or woman, or pleasure, or gold. I'll be
first, or I'll be naething at a'!"
She found her father alone, and wide awake. "Where is Mither?" she
asked.
"I got her to go to bed. She was weary and full o' pain. Keep a close
watch on your mither, Christine. The trouble in her heart grows warse,
I fear. Wha was wi' you in your hame-comin'?"
"Angus Ballister."
"Weel, then?"
"It is the last time he will be wi' me."
"Is that sae? It is just as weel."
"He is awa' wi' his Uncle Ballister, for a year or mair."
"Is he thinking you'll wait, while he looks o'er the women-folk in the
rest o' the warld?"
"It seems sae."
"You liked him weel enough?"
"Whiles--weel enough for a lover on trial. But what would a lass do
wi' a husband wha could leave her for a year on his ain partic'lar
pleasure."
"I kent you wad act wiselike, when the time came to act. There's nae
men sae true as fishermen. They hae ane dear woman to love, and she's
the only woman in the warld for them. Now Cluny----"
"We willna speak o' Cluny, Feyther. Both you and Mither, specially
Mither, are far out o' your usual health. What for did God gie you a
daughter, if it wasna to be a comfort and help to you, when you
needed it? I'm no carin' to marry any man."
"Please God, you arena fretting anent Angus?"
"What for would I fret? He was a grand lover while he lasted. But when
a man is feared to honor his love with his name, a lass has a right to
despise him."
"Just sae! But you mustna fret yoursel' sick after him."
"Me! Not likely!"
"He was bonnie enou', and he had siller--plenty o' siller!"
"I'm no' thinkin' o' the siller, Feyther! Na, na, siller isn't in the
matter, but--
"When your lover rins over the sea,
He may never come back again;
But this, or that, will na matter to me,
For my heart! My heart is my ain!"
"Then a's weel, lassie. I'll just creep into Neil's bed, for I dinna
want to wake your mither for either this, or that, or ony ither thing.
Good night, dearie! You're a brave lassie! God bless you!"