Amelia Barr - Christine - A Fife Fisher Girl

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:

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’?”