“Christine, you will remember that I told you it was they who waited patiently on the Lord, who received His blessing. Are you satisfied now?”
“Oh, Sir! Do not ask me that question. You know I am satisfied.”
“Then put this money in the bank, and go to wark with all your mind, and all your soul. Being a woman you cannot preach, so God has chosen you for the pen of a ready writer. Say all that is given you to say, whether you get paid by the handicrafters, or not. God will see that you get your wages. Goodnight! You may let the bit Ballister affair slip out of your mind. The young man isn’t naturally bad. He is ashamed of himself by this time. No doubt of it.”
These things happened at the beginning of the herring season, and for two months Christine had a blessed interval of forgetfulness. Every man, woman and child, was busy about the fish. They had no time to think of the lonely girl, who had begun, and then suddenly abandoned the fishing—nobody knew what for. But they saw her in the 323 kirk every Sabbath, apparently well and happy, and old Judith said she had nae doubt whatever that Cluny had forbidden her to hae any pairt in the clash and quarreling o’ the women folk in the herrin’ sheds, and why not? Cluny would be a full captain, wi’ all his trimmings on, when he came to Culraine next April for his wife, and was it likely he would be wanting his wife cryin’ feesh, and haggling wi’ dirty, clackin’ women, for a few bawbees? Christine was a lady born, she said, and her Cluny would set her among the quality where she belonged. Judith had no doubt whatever that Christine was obeying an order from Cluny, and Jessy Ruleson said she was glad the lass had found a master, she had always had too much o’ her ain ill way.
For nearly three months Christine lived a quiet, methodical life, undisturbed by any outside influence, and free from all care. She rose very early, finding creative writing always easiest before noon. She went to bed very early, knowing that the sleep before midnight is the renewing sleep, and she hemmed the day, night and morn, with prayer, to keep it from unraveling. All that could happen between these two prayers was provided for, and she gave herself heart and soul to the delightful toil of story-writing. She wrote as she felt. She used the dialect and idioms of her people when it was necessary, and no one checked her for it. It was her style, and style is the stamp of individual intellect, as language is the stamp of race. Certainly 324 it is an habitual deviation from accuracy, but it is a deviation for the purpose of communicating freedom and feeling. The pen is neither grammar nor dictionary, its purpose is to be the interpreter of the heart.
One morning in September she had a strange feeling of inability to work. The fog dulled her mind. Nothing was firm and certain in her ideas. She found herself dreaming of incoherent and mysterious things, a woof of thought, as airy as the fog itself. “I’ll put the paper and pencil awa’,” she said, “and I’ll build up the fire, and make some good bread, then if I am no mair awake I’ll red up the house. There’s dust on everything and little wonder if there’s dust on my mind, too.” Then someone tried to open the door and she called out, “Wait a wee! I’ll slip the bolt in a minute.” When she had done so, she opened the door and Neil, in a low broken voice said, “Christine! Let me in! Why am I bolted out?” and he whimpered out the words, like a hurt child, as he passed her.
She looked at him in amazement. She could hardly believe her own senses. This was not her brother—a wan, trembling man, with the clothing of a laborer, and his hair clipped close to his head.
“Bolt the door again,” he said, in his old authoritative way, “and give me something to eat. I am sick with hunger, and cold, and misery of all kinds.”
“I’ll do all that, Neil, but where hae you been 325 this lang time, and what makes you sae poor, and sae broken down?”
“Get me something to eat, and I will tell you.”