“Oh Mither, Mither!” she cried, “how little had ye for a’ the days o’ your hard, sorrowfu’, painfu’, fifty-five years—for a’ your loveless girlhood—for a’ your wifely watchings and fearings for feyther on the stormy seas—for a’ your mitherhood’s pains and cares—for the lang, cruel years you were walking i’ the Valley o’ the Shadow o’ Death—for a’ the years o’ your hard, daily wark, loving and tending your six sons and mysel’, feeding, dressing, and makin’ us learn our catechism and our Bible verses—curing fish, and selling fish, makin’ nets, and mending nets, cooking and knitting and sewing. Surely the good Master saw it all, and will gie you His ‘well done,’ and the wage ye hae earned.”
The bits of crochet work that her mother’s trembling fingers had made—her last work one little table mat unfinished—had a strange sacredness, and a far more touching claim. She took these to her own room. “They hold Mither’s last thoughts. They seem a part o’ her. I’ll never lose sight o’ them while I draw breath o’ life. Never!” And she kissed and folded them up, with the dried rose leaves from Margot’s garden.
Then she stayed her tears, and looked round the disordered house. Everything was out of its proper place. That circumstance alone made her miserable, for Christine was what her neighbors called a “pernickity” housekeeper. She must have a place for everything, and everything in its place. Until she had her home in this precise condition, she resolved to take no other trouble into consideration. And simple and even derogatory as it appears to be, nothing is more certainly efficacious in soothing grief, than hard physical labor. It took her two days to put the cottage in its usual spotless condition, and during those two days, she gave herself no moment in which to think of any trouble before her.
She knew well that there must be trouble. Her mother’s burial money, put away twenty-nine years previously, had proved quite insufficient for modern ideals and modern prices. She was nearly out of money and there would be debts to meet, and every debt would be to her like a wolf baying round the 293 house. That was one trouble. Cluny was another. She knew he would now urge an immediate marriage, and that his plea would have an appearance of extreme justice. She also knew that he would be supported by Norman, whose wife had long set her heart on occupying the Ruleson cottage. That was a second trouble. The third was Neil. He had been immediately notified of his mother’s death, and he had taken no notice of the event. The other boys not present, were all at sea, but where was Neil?
These things she would not yet permit her mind to consider.—In fact, the tossed-up, uncleanly house, dulled her faculties. She could not think clearly, until all was spotless and orderly. Then she could meet trouble clear-headed and free-handed. However, on the third evening after her mother’s burial, every corner of the house satisfied her. Even her dusters and cleaning-cloths had been washed and gone to their special corner of the kitchen drawer; and she had felt, that afternoon, that she could comfortably arrange her paper and pencils on the table of her own room.
She was eager to write. Her heart and brain burned with the thoughts and feelings she longed to express. “Tomorrow,” she said to herself—“Tomorrow, I shall go on with my book.” Three months previously she had begun a story to be called “A Daughter of the Sea,” but lately she had been obliged to lay it aside. She found “the bits o’ poetry,” 294 were all she could manage in the short intervals of time that were her own.
My readers may reflect here, on the truth that there is no special education for a writer. The man or woman who has anything to say to the world, brings the ability to declare it with him. Then all the accidents and events of life stimulate the power which dwells in the heart and brain, and the happy gift speaks for itself. Christine had been making up poetry ever since she could remember, and while yet a child had been the favorite story-teller in all the social gatherings at Culraine. And it is not unlikely that a good story-teller may turn out to be a good story-writer.
About one-third of her first novel, “A Daughter of the Sea,” was completed, and now, with a happy resolution, she sat down to finish it. She did not have the material to seek, she had only to recollect and write down. The day passed with incredible swiftness, and early in the evening Norman opened the door, and saw her sitting by the fire. Her hands were clasped above her head, and there was the shadow of a smile on her still face.
“O Norman!” she cried, “how glad I am to see you! Nobody has been here since——”