CHRISTIE'S situation requires to be explained.
On leaving Gatty and his mother, she went to her own house. Flucker—who after looking upon her for years as an inconvenient appendage, except at dinnertime, had fallen in love with her in a manner that was half pathetic, half laughable, all things considered—saw by her face she had received a blow, and raising himself in the bed, inquired anxiously, “What ailed her?”
At these kind words, Christie Johnstone laid her cheek upon the pillow beside Flucker's and said:
“Oh, my laamb, be kind to your puir sister fra' this hoor, for she has naething i' the warld noo but yoursel'.”
Flucker began to sob at this.
Christie could not cry; her heart was like a lump of lead in her bosom; but she put her arm round his neck, and at the sight of his sympathy she panted heavily, but could not shed a tear—she was sore stricken.
Presently Jean came in, and, as the poor girl's head ached as well as her heart, they forced her to go and sit in the air. She took her creepie and sat, and looked on the sea; but, whether she looked seaward or landward, all seemed unreal; not things, but hard pictures of things, some moving, some still. Life seemed ended—she had lost her love.
An hour she sat in this miserable trance; she was diverted into a better, because a somewhat less dangerous form of grief, by one of those trifling circumstances that often penetrate to the human heart when inaccessible to greater things.
Willy the fiddler and his brother came through the town, playing as they went, according to custom; their music floated past Christie's ears like some drowsy chime, until, all of a sudden, they struck up the old English air, “Speed the Plow.”
Now it was to this tune Charles Gatty had danced with her their first dance the night they made acquaintance.
Christie listened, lifted up her hands, and crying:
“Oh, what will I do? what will I do?” burst into a passion of grief.
She put her apron over her head, and rocked herself, and sobbed bitterly.
She was in this situation when Lord Ipsden, who was prowling about, examining the proportions of the boats, discovered her.
“Some one in distress—that was all in his way.”
“Madam!” said he.
She lifted up her head.
“It is Christie Johnstone. I'm so glad; that is, I'm sorry you are crying, but I'm glad I shall have the pleasure of relieving you;” and his lordship began to feel for a check-book.
“And div ye really think siller's a cure for every grief!” said Christie, bitterly.
“I don't know,” said his lordship; “it has cured them all as yet.”
“It will na cure me, then!” and she covered her head with her apron again.
“I am very sorry,” said he; “tell me”(whispering),“what is it? poor little Christie!”
“Dinna speak to me; I think shame; ask Jean. Oh, Richard, I'll no be lang in this warld!!!”
“Ah!” said he, “I know too well what it is now; I know, by sad experience. But, Christie, money will cure it in your case, and it shall, too; only, instead of five pounds, we must put a thousand pounds or two to your banker's account, and then they will all see your beauty, and run after you.”
“How daur ye even to me that I'm seekin a lad?” cried she, rising from her stool; “I would na care suppose there was na a lad in Britain.” And off she flounced.
“Offended her by my gross want of tact,” thought the viscount.
She crept back, and two velvet lips touched his hand. That was because she had spoken harshly to a friend.
“Oh, Richard,” said she, despairingly, “I'll no be lang in this warld.”
He was touched; and it was then he took her head and kissed her brow, and said: “This will never do. My child, go home and have a nice cry, and I will speak to Jean; and, rely upon me, I will not leave the neighborhood till I have arranged it all to your satisfaction.”
And so she went—a little, a very little, comforted by his tone and words.
Now this was all very pretty; but then seen at a distance of fifty yards it looked very ugly; and Gatty, who had never before known jealousy, the strongest and worst of human passions, was ripe for anything.
He met Lord Ipsden, and said at once, in his wise, temperate way:
“Sir, you are a villain!”
Ipsden. “Plait-il?”
Gatty.“You are a villain!”
Ipsden.“How do you make that out?”
Gatty.“But, of course, you are not a coward, too.”
Ipsden (ironically).“You surprise me with your moderation, sir.”
Gatty.“Then you will waive your rank—you are a lord, I believe-and give me satisfaction.”
Ipsden.“My rank, sir, such as it is, engages me to give a proper answer to proposals of this sort; I am at your orders.”
Gatty.“A man of your character must often have been called to an account by your victims, so—so—” (hesitating) “perhaps you will tell me the proper course.”
Ipsden. “Ishall send a note to the castle, and the colonel will send me down somebody with a mustache; I shall pretend to remember mustache, mustache will pretend he remembers me; he will then communicate with your friend, and they will arrange it all for us.”
Gatty.“And, perhaps, through your licentiousness, one or both of us will be killed.”
Ipsden.“Yes! but we need not trouble our heads about that—the seconds undertake everything.”
Gatty.“I have no pistols.”
Ipsden.“If you will do me the honor to use one of mine, it shall be at your service.”
Gatty.“Thank you.”
Ipsden.“To-morrow morning?”
Gatty.“No. I have four days' painting to do on my picture, I can't die till it is finished; Friday morning.”
Ipsden.“(He is mad.) I wish to ask you a question, you will excuse my curiosity. Have you any idea what we are agreeing to differ about?”
Gatty.“The question does you little credit, my lord; that is to add insult to wrong.”
He went off hurriedly, leaving Lord Ipsden mystified.
He thought Christie Johnstone was somehow connected with it; but, conscious of no wrong, he felt little disposed to put up with any insult, especially from this boy, to whom he had been kind, he thought.
His lordship was, besides, one of those good, simple-minded creatures, educated abroad, who, when invited to fight, simply bow, and load two pistols, and get themselves called at six; instead of taking down tomes of casuistry and puzzling their poor brains to find out whether they are gamecocks or capons, and why.
As for Gatty, he hurried home in a fever of passion, begged his mother's pardon, and reproached himself for ever having disobeyed her on account of such a perfidious creature as Christie Johnstone.
He then told her what he had seen, as distance and imagination had presented it to him; to his surprise the old lady cut him short.
“Charles,” said she, “there is no need to take the girl's character away; she has but one fault—she is not in the same class of life as you, and such marriages always lead to misery; but in other respects she is a worthy young woman—don't speak against her character, or you will make my flesh creep; you don't know what her character is to a woman, high or low.”
By this moderation, perhaps she held him still faster.
Friday morning arrived. Gatty had, by hard work, finished his picture, collected his sketches from nature, which were numerous, left by memorandum everything to his mother, and was, or rather felt, as ready to die as live.
He had hardly spoken a word or eaten a meal these four days; his mother was in anxiety about him. He rose early, and went down to Leith; an hour later, his mother, finding him gone out, rose and went to seek him at Newhaven.
Meantime Flucker had entirely recovered, but his sister's color had left her cheeks. The boy swore vengeance against the cause of her distress.
On Friday morning, then, there paced on Leith Sands two figures.
One was Lord Ipsden.
The other seemed a military gentleman, who having swallowed the mess-room poker, and found it insufficient, had added the ramrods of his company.
The more his lordship reflected on Gatty, the less inclined he had felt to invite a satirical young dog from barracks to criticise such arencontre;he had therefore ordered Saunders to get up as a field-marshal, or some such trifle, and what Saunders would have called incomparable verticality was the result.
The painter was also in sight.
While he was coming up, Lord Ipsden was lecturing Marshal Saunders on a point on which that worthy had always thought himself very superior to his master—“Gentlemanly deportment.”
“Now, Saunders, mind and behave like a gentleman, or we shall be found out.”
“I trust, my lord, my conduct—”
“What I mean is, you must not be so overpoweringly gentleman-like as you are apt to be; no gentleman is so gentleman as all that; it could not be borne,c'est suffoquant;and a white handkerchief is unsoldier-like, and nobody ties a white handkerchief so well as that; of all the vices, perfection is the most intolerable.” His lordship then touched with his cane the generalissimo's tie, whose countenance straightway fell, as though he had lost three successive battles.
Gatty came up.
They saluted.
“Where is your second, sir?” said the mare'chal.
“My second?” said Gatty. “Ah! I forgot to wake him—does it matter?”
“It is merely a custom,” said Lord Ipsden, with a very slightly satirical manner. “Savanadero,” said he, “do us the honor to measure the ground, and be everybody's second.”
Savanadero measured the ground, and handed a pistol to each combatant, and struck an imposing attitude apart.
“Are you ready, gentlemen?” said this Jack-o'-both-sides.
“Yes!” said both.
Just as the signal was about to be given, an interruption occurred. “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Lord Ipsden to his antagonist; “I am going to take aliberty—a great libertywith you, but I think you will find your pistol is only at half cock.”
“Thank you, my lord; what am I to do with the thing?”
“Draw back the cock so, and be ready to fire?”
“So?”Bang!
He had touched the trigger as well as the cock, so off went the barker; and after a considerable pause the field-marshal sprang yelling into the air.
“Hallo!” cried Mr. Gatty.
“Ah! oh! I'm a dead man,” whined the general.
“Nonsense!” said Ipsden, after a moment of anxiety. “Give yourself no concern, sir,” said he, soothingly, to his antagonist—“a mere accident. Mare'chal, reload Mr. Gatty's pistol.”
“Excuse me, my lord—”
“Load his pistol directly,” said his lordship, sternly; “and behave like a gentleman.”
“My lord! my lord! but where shall I stand to be safe?”
“Behind me!”
The commander of division advanced reluctantly for Gatty's pistol.
“No, my lord!” said Gatty, “it is plain I am not a fit antagonist; I shall but expose myself—and my mother has separated us; I have lost her—if you do not win her some worse man may; but, oh! if you are a man, use her tenderly.”
“Whom?”
“Christie Johnstone! Oh, sir, do not make her regret me too much! She was my treasure, my consolation—she was to be my wife, she would have cheered the road of life—it is a desert now. I loved her—I—I—”
Here the poor fellow choked.
Lord Ipsden turned round, and threw his pistol to Saunders, saying, “Catch that, Saunders.”
Saunders, on the contrary, by a single motion changed his person from a vertical straight line to a horizontal line exactly parallel with the earth's surface, and the weapon sang innoxious over him.
His lordship then, with a noble defiance of etiquette, walked up to his antagonist and gave him his hand, with a motion no one could resist; for he felt for the poor fellow.
“It is all a mistake,” said he. “There is no sentiment between La Johnstone and me but mutual esteem. I will explain the whole thing.Iadmireherfor her virtue, her wit, her innocence, her goodness and all that sort of thing; andshe,whatshesees inme,I am sure I don't know,” added he, slightly shrugging his aristocratic shoulders. “Do me the honor to breakfast with me at Newhaven.”
“I have ordered twelve sorts of fish at the 'Peacock,' my lord,” said Saunders.
“Divine! (I hate fish) I told Saunders all would be hungry and none shot; by the by, you are winged, I think you said, Saunders?”
“No, my lord! but look at my trousers.”
The bullet had cut his pantaloons.
“I see—only barked; so go and see about our breakfast.”
“Yes, my lord”(faintly).
“And draw on me for fifty pounds' worth of—new trousers.”
“Yes, my lord”(sonorously).
The duelists separated, Gatty taking the short cut to Newhaven; he proposed to take his favorite swim there, to refresh himself before breakfast; and he went from his lordship a little cheered by remarks which fell from him, and which, though vague, sounded friendly—poor fellow, except when he had a brush in hand he was a dreamer.
This viscount, who did not seem to trouble his head about class dignity, was to convert his mother from her aristocratic tendencies or something.
Que sais-je?what will not a dreamer hope?
Lord Ipsden strolled along the sands, and judge his surprise, when, attended by two footmen, he met at that time in the morning Lady Barbara Sinclair.
Lord Ipsden had been so disheartened and piqued by this lady's conduct that for a whole week he had not been near her. This line of behavior sometimes answers.
She met him with a grand display of cordiality.
She inquired, “Whether he had heard of a most gallant action, that, coupled with another circumstance”(here she smiled),“had in part reconciled her to the age we live in?”
He asked for further particulars.
She then informed him “that a ship had been ashore on the rocks, that no fisherman dared venture out, that a young gentleman had given them his whole fortune, and so bribed them to accompany him; that he had saved the ship and the men's lives, paid away his fortune, and lighted an odious cigar and gone home, never minding, amid the blessings and acclamations of a maritime population.”
A beautiful story she told him; so beautiful, in fact, that until she had discoursed ten minutes he hardly recognized his own feat; but when he did he blushed inside as well as out with pleasure. Oh! music of music—praise from eloquent lips, and those lips the lips we love.
The next moment he felt ashamed; ashamed that Lady Barbara should praise him beyond his merits, as he conceived.
He made a faint hypocritical endeavor to moderate her eulogium; this gave matters an unexpected turn, Lady Barbara's eyes flashed defiance.
“I say it was a noble action, that one nursed in effeminacy (as you all are) should teach the hardy seamen to mock at peril—noble fellow!”
“He did a man's duty, Barbara.”
“Ipsden, take care, you will make me hate you, if you detract from a deed you cannot emulate. This gentleman risked his own life to save others—he is a hero! I should know him by his face the moment I saw him. Oh, that I were such a man, or knew where to find such a creature!”
The water came into Lord Ipsden's eyes; he did not know what to say or do; he turned away his head. Lady Barbara was surprised; her conscience smote her.
“Oh, dear,” said she, “there now, I have given you pain—forgive me; we can't all be heroes; dear Ipsden, don't think I despise you now as I used. Oh, no! I have heard of your goodness to the poor, and I have more experience now. There is nobody I esteem more than you, Richard, so you need not look so.”
“Thank you, dearest Barbara.”
“Yes, and if you were to be such a goose as to write me another letter proposing absurdities to me—”
“Would the answer be different?”
“Very different.”
“Oh, Barbara, would you accept?”
“Why, of course not; but I would refuse civilly!”
“Ah!”
“There, don't sigh; I hate a sighing man. I'll tell you something that I know will make you laugh.” She then smiled saucily in his face, and said, “Do you remember Mr.——?”
L'effronte'e!this was the earnest man. But Ipsden was a match for her this time. “I think I do,” said he; “a gentleman who wants to make John Bull little again into John Calf; but it won't do.”
Her ladyship laughed. “Why did you not tell us that on Inch Coombe?”
“Because I had not readThe Catspawthen.”
“The Catspaw?Ah! I thought it could not be you. Whose is it?”
“Mr. Jerrold's.”
“Then Mr. Jerrold is cleverer than you.”
“It is possible.”
“It is certain! Well, Mr. Jerrold and Lord Ipsden, you will both be glad to hear that it was, in point of fact, a bull that confuted the advocate of the Middle Ages; we were walking; he was telling me manhood was extinct except in a few earnest men who lived upon the past, its associations, its truth; when a horrid bull gave—oh—such a bellow! and came trotting up. I screamed and ran—I remember nothing but arriving at the stile, and lo, on the other side, offering me his arm withempressmentacross the wooden barrier was—”
“Well?”
“Well! don't you see?”
“No—oh—yes, I see!—fancy—ah! Shall I tell you how he came to get first over? He ran more earnestly than you.”
“It is not Mr. Jerrold this time, I presume,” said her satirical ladyship.
“No! you cannot always have him. I venture to predict your ladyship on your return home gave this mediaeval personage hisconge'.”
“No!”
“No?”
“I gave it him at the stile! Let us be serious, if you please; I have a confidence to make you, Ipsden. Frankly, I owe you some apology for my conduct of late; I meant to be reserved—I have been rude—but you shall judge me. A year ago you made me some proposals; I rejected them because, though I like you—”
“You like me?”
“I detest your character. Since then, my West India estate has been turned into specie; that specie, the bulk of my fortune, placed on board a vessel; that vessel lost, at least we think so—she has not been heard of.”
“My dear cousin.”
“Do you comprehend that now I am cooler than ever to all young gentlemen who have large incomes, and” (holding out her hand like an angel) “I must trouble you to forgive me.”
He kissed her lovely hand.
“I esteem you more and more,” said he. “You ought, for it has been a hard struggle to me not to adore you, because you are so improved,mon cousin.”
“Is it possible? In what respect?”
“You are browner and charitabler; and I should have been very kind to you—mawkishly kind, I fear, my sweet cousin, if this wretched money had not gone down in theTisbe.”
“Hallo!” cried the viscount.
“Ah!” squeaked Lady Barbara, unused to such interjections.
“Gone down in what?” said Ipsden, in a loud voice.
“Don't bellow in people's ears. TheTisbe,stupid,” cried she, screaming at the top of her voice.
“Ri tum, ti turn, ti tum, tum, tum, tiddy, iddy,” went Lord Ipsden—he whistled a polka.
Lady Barbara (inspecting him gravely).“I have heard it at a distance, but I never saw how it was done before.It is very, very pretty!!!!”
Ipsden. “Polkez-vous, madame?”
Lady Barb. “Si, je polke, Monsieur le Vicomte.”
They polked for a second or two.
“Well, I dare say I am wrong,” cried Lady Barbara, “but I like you better now you are a downright—ahem!—than when you were only an insipid non-intellectual—you are greatly improved.”
Ips.“In what respects?”
Lady Barb.“Did I not tell you? browner and more impudent; but tell me,” said she, resuming her sly, satirical tone, “how is it that you, who used to be the pink of courtesy, dance and sing over the wreck of my fortunes?”
“Because they are not wrecked.”
“I thought I told you my specie is gone down in theTisbe.”
Ipsden.“But theTisbehas not gone down.”
Lady Barb.“I tell you it is.”
Ipsden.“I assure you it is not.”
Lady Barb.“It is not?”
Ipsden.“Barbara! I am too happy, I begin to nourish such sweet hopes once more. Oh, I could fall on my knees and bless you for something you said just now.”
Lady Barbara blushed to the temples.
“Then why don't you?” said she. “All you want is a little enthusiasm.” Then recovering herself, she said:
“You kneel on wet sand, with black trousers on; that will never be!!!”
These two were so occupied that they did not observe the approach of a stranger until he broke in upon their dialogue.
An Ancient Mariner had been for some minutes standing off and on, reconnoitering Lord Ipsden; he now bore down, and with great rough, roaring cordiality, that made Lady Barbara start, cried out:
“Give me your hand, sir—give me your hand, if you were twice a lord.
“I couldn't speak to you till the brig was safe in port, and you slipped away, but I've brought you up at last; and—give me your hand again, sir. I say, isn't it a pity you are a lord instead of a sailor?”
Ipsden.“But I am a sailor.”
Ancient Mariner.“That ye are, and as smart a one as ever tied a true-lover's knot in the top; but tell the truth—you were never nearer losing the number of your mess than that day in the oldTisbe.”
Lady Barb.“The oldTisbe!Oh!”
Ipsden.“Do you remember that nice little lurch she gave to leeward as we brought her round?”
Lady Barb.“Oh, Richard!”
Ancient Mariner.“And that reel the old wench gave under our feet, north the pier-head. I wouldn't have given a washing-tub for her at that moment.”
Ipsden.“Past danger becomes pleasure, sir.Olim et hoec meminisse—I beg your pardon, sir.”
Ancient Mariner (taking off his hat with feeling).“God bless ye, sir, and send ye many happy days, and well spent, with the pretty lady I see alongside; asking your pardon, miss, for parting pleasanter company—so I'll sheer off.”
And away went the skipper of theTisbe,rolling fearfully. In the heat of this reminiscence, the skipper of the yacht (they are all alike, blue water once fairly tasted) had lost sight of Lady Barbara; he now looked round. Imagine his surprise!
Her ladyship was in tears.
“Dear Barbara,” said Lord Ipsden, “do not distress yourself on my account.”
“It is not your fe-feelings I care about; at least, I h-h-hope not; but I have been so unjust, and I prided myself so on my j-ju-justice.”
“Never mind!”
“Oh! if you don't, I don't. I hate myself, so it is no wonder you h-hate me.”
“I love you more than ever.”
“Then you are a good soul! Of course you know I always—I—esteemed you, Richard.”
“No! I had an idea you despised me!”
“How silly you are! Can't you see? When I thought you were not perfection, which you are now, it vexed me to death; you never saw me affront any one but you?”
“No, I never did! What does that prove?”
“That depends upon the wit of him that reasons thereon.” (Coming to herself.)
“I love you, Barbara! Will you honor me with your hand?”
“No! I am not so base, so selfish. You are worth a hundred of me, and here have I been treating youde haut en bas.Dear Richard, poor Richard. Oh! oh! oh!” (A perfect flood of tears.)
“Barbara! I regret nothing; this moment pays for all.”
“Well, then, I will! since you keep pressing me. There, let me go; I must be alone; I must tell the sea how unjust I was, and how happy I am, and when you see me again you shall see the better side of your cousin Barbara.”
She was peremptory. “She had her folly and his merits to think over,” she said; but she promised to pass through Newhaven, and he should put her into her pony-phaeton, which would meet her there.
Lady Barbara was only a fool by the excess of her wit over her experience; and Lord Ipsden's love was not misplaced, for she had a great heart which she hid from little people. I forgive her!
The resolutions she formed in company with the sea, having dismissed Ipsden, and ordered her flunky into the horizon, will probably give our viscount just half a century of conjugal bliss.
As he was going she stopped him and said: “Your friend had browner hands than I have hitherto conceived possible.To tell the truth,I took them for the claws of a mahogany table when he grappled you—is that the term?C'est e'gal—I like him—”
She stopped him again. “Ipsden, in the midst of all this that poor man's ship is broken. I feel it is! You will buy him another, if you really love me—for I like him.”
And so these lovers parted for a time; and Lord Ipsden with a bounding heart returned to Newhaven. He went to entertain his latevis-'a-visat the “Peacock.”
Meantime a shorter and less pleasantrencontrehad taken place between Leith and that village.
Gatty felt he should meet his lost sweetheart; and sure enough, at a turn of the road Christie and Jean came suddenly upon him.
Jean nodded, but Christie took no notice of him; they passed him; he turned and followed them, and said, “Christie!”
“What is your will wi' me?” said she, coldly.
“I—I—How pale you are!”
“I am no very weel.”
“She has been watching over muckle wi' Flucker,” said Jean.
Christie thanked her with a look.
“I hope it is not—not—”
“Nae fears, lad,” said she, briskly; “I dinna think that muckle o' ye.”
“And I think of nothing but you,” said he.
A deep flush crimsoned the young woman's brow, but she restrained herself, and said icily: “Thaat's very gude o' ye, I'm sure.”
Gatty felt all the contempt her manners and words expressed. He bit his lips. The tear started to his eye. “You will forget me,” said he. “I do not deserve to be remembered, but I shall never forget you. I leave for England. I leave Newhaven forever, where I have been so happy. I am going at three o'clock by the steamboat. Won't you bid me good-by?” He approached her timidly.
“Ay! that wull do,” cried she; “Gude be wi' ye, lad; I wish ye nae ill.” She gave a commanding gesture of dismissal; he turned away, and went sadly from her. She watched every motion when his back was turned.
“That is you, Christie,” said Jean; “use the lads like dirt, an' they think a' the mair o' ye.”
“Oh, Jean, my hairt's broken. I'm just deeing for him.”
“Let me speak till him then,” said Jean; “I'll sune bring him till his marrow-banes;” and she took a hasty step to follow him.
Christie held her fast. “I'd dee ere I'd give in till them. Oh, Jean! I'm a lassie clean flung awa; he has neither hairt nor spunk ava, yon lad!”
Jean began to make excuses for him. Christie inveighed against him. Jean spoke up for him with more earnestness.
Now observe, Jean despised the poor boy.
Christie adored him.
So Jean spoke for him, because women of every degree are often one solid mass of tact; and Christie abused him, because she wanted to hear him defended.
RICHARD, LORD VISCOUNT IPSDEN, having dotted the seashore with sentinels, to tell him of Lady Barbara's approach, awaited his guest in the “Peacock”; but, as Gatty was a little behind time, he placed Saunders sentinel over the “Peacock,” and strolled eastward; as he came out of the “Peacock,” Mrs. Gatty came down the little hill in front, and also proceeded eastward; meantime Lady Barbara and her escort were not far from the New Town of Newhaven, on their way from Leith.
Mrs. Gatty came down, merely with a vague fear. She had no reason to suppose her son's alliance with Christie either would or could be renewed, but she was a careful player and would not give a chance away; she found he was gone out unusually early, so she came straight to the only place she dreaded; it was her son's last day in Scotland. She had packed his clothes, and he had inspired her with confidence by arranging pictures, etc., himself; she had no idea he was packing for his departure from this life, not Edinburgh only.
She came then to Newhaven with no serious misgivings, for, even if her son had again vacillated, she saw that, with Christie's pride and her own firmness, the game must be hers in the end; but, as I said before, she was one who played her cards closely, and such seldom lose.
But my story is with the two young fishwives, who, on their return from Leith, found themselves at the foot of the New Town, Newhaven, some minutes before any of the other persons who, it is to be observed, were approaching it from different points; they came slowly in, Christie in particular, with a listlessness she had never, known till this last week; for some days her strength had failed her—it was Jean that carried the creel now—before, Christie, in the pride of her strength, would always do more than her share of their joint labor. Then she could hardly be forced to eat, and what she did eat was quite tasteless to her, and sleep left her, and in its stead came uneasy slumbers, from which she awoke quivering from head to foot.
Oh! perilous venture of those who love one object with the whole heart.
This great but tender heart was breaking day by day.
Well, Christie and Jean, strolling slowly into the New Town of Newhaven, found an assemblage of the natives all looking seaward; the fishermen, except Sandy Liston, were away at the herring fishery, but all the boys and women of the New Town were collected; the girls felt a momentary curiosity; it proved, however, to be only an individual swimming in toward shore from a greater distance than usual.
A little matter excites curiosity in such places.
The man's head looked like a spot of ink.
Sandy Liston was minding his own business, lazily mending a skait-net, which he had attached to a crazy old herring-boat hauled up to rot.
Christie sat down, pale and languid, by him, on a creepie that a lass who had been baiting a line with mussels had just vacated; suddenly she seized Jean's arm with a convulsive motion; Jean looked up—it was the London steamboat running out from Leith to Granton Pier to take up her passengers for London. Charles Gatty was going by that boat; the look of mute despair the poor girl gave went to Jean's heart; she ran hastily from the group, and cried out of sight for poor Christie.
A fishwife, looking through a telescope at the swimmer, remarked: “He's coming in fast; he's a gallant swimmer, yon—
“Can he dee't?” inquired Christie of Sandy Liston.
“Fine thaat,” was the reply; “he does it aye o' Sundays when ye are at the kirk.”
“It's no oot o' the kirk window ye'll hae seen him, Sandy, my mon,” said a young fishwife.
“Rin for my glass ony way, Flucker,” said Christie, forcing herself to take some little interest.
Flucker brought it to her, she put her hand on his shoulder, got slowly up, and stood on the creepie and adjusted the focus of her glass; after a short view, she said to Flucker:
“Rin and see the nook.” She then leveled her glass again at the swimmer.
Flucker informed her the nook said “half eleven”—Scotch for “half past ten.”
Christie whipped out a well-thumbed almanac.
“Yon nook's aye ahint,” said she. She swept the sea once more with her glass, then brought it together with a click, and jumped off the stool. Her quick intelligence viewed the matter differently from all the others.
“Noow,” cried she, smartly, “wha'll lend me his yawl?”
“Hets! dinna be sae interferin', lassie,” said a fishwife.
“Hae nane o' ye ony spunk?” said Christie, taking no notice of the woman. “Speak, laddies!”
“M' uncle's yawl is at the pier-head; ye'll get her, my woman,” said a boy.
“A schell'n for wha's first on board,” said Christie, holding up the coin.
“Come awa', Flucker, we'll hae her schell'n;” and these two worthies instantly effected a false start.
“It's no under your jackets,” said Christie, as she dashed after them like the wind.
“Haw! haw! haw!” laughed Sandy.
“What's her business picking up a mon against his will?” said a woman.
“She's an awfu' lassie,” whined another. The examination of the swimmer was then continued, and the crowd increased; some would have it he was rapidly approaching, others that he made little or no way.
“Wha est?” said another.
“It's a lummy,” said a girl.
“Na! it's no a lummy,” said another.
Christie's boat was now seen standing out from the pier. Sandy Liston, casting a contemptuous look on all the rest, lifted himself lazily into the herring-boat and looked seaward. His manner changed in a moment.
“The Deevil!” cried he; “the tide's turned! You wi' your glass, could you no see yon man's drifting oot to sea?”
“Hech!” cried the women, “he'll be drooned—he'll be drooned!”
“Yes; he'll be drooned!” cried Sandy, “if yon lassie does na come alongside him deevelich quick—he's sair spent, I doot.”
Two spectators were now added to the scene, Mrs. Gatty and Lord Ipsden. Mrs. Gatty inquired what was the matter.
“It's a mon drooning,” was the reply.
The poor fellow, whom Sandy, by aid of his glass, now discovered to be in a wornout condition, was about half a mile east of Newhaven pier-head, and unfortunately the wind was nearly due east. Christie was standing north-northeast, her boat-hook jammed against the sail, which stood as flat as a knife.
The natives of the Old Town were now seen pouring down to the pier and the beach, and strangers were collecting like bees.
“After wit is everybody's wit!!!”—Old Proverb.
The affair was in the Johnstone's hands.
“That boat is not going to the poor man,” said Mrs. Gatty, “it is turning its back upon him.”
“She canna lie in the wind's eye, for as clever as she is,” answered a fishwife.
“I ken wha it is,” suddenly squeaked a little fishwife; “it's Christie Johnstone's lad; it's yon daft painter fr' England. Hech!” cried she, suddenly, observing Mrs. Gatty, “it's your son, woman.”
The unfortunate woman gave a fearful scream, and, flying like a tiger on Liston, commanded him “to go straight out to sea and save her son.”
Jean Carnie seized her arm. “Div ye see yon boat?” cried she; “and div ye mind Christie, the lass wha's hairt ye hae broken? aweel, woman—it's just a race between deeth and Cirsty Johnstone for your son.”
The poor old woman swooned dead away; they carried her into Christie Johnstone's house and laid her down, then hurried back—the greater terror absorbed the less.
Lady Barbara Sinclair was there from Leith; and, seeing Lord Ipsden standing in the boat with a fisherman, she asked him to tell her what it was; neither he nor any one answered her.
“Why doesn't she come about, Liston?” cried Lord Ipsden, stamping with anxiety and impatience.
“She'll no be lang,” said Sandy; “but they'll mak a mess o' 't wi' ne'er a man i' the boat.”
“Ye're sure o' thaat?” put in a woman.
“Ay, about she comes,” said Liston, as the sail came down on the first tack. He was mistaken; they dipped the lug as cleverly as any man in the town could.
“Hech! look at her hauling on the rope like a mon,” cried a woman. The sail flew up on the other tack.
“She's an awfu' lassie,”. whined another.
“He's awa,” groaned Liston, “he's doon!”
“No! he's up again,” cried Lord Ipsden; “but I fear he can't live till the boat comes to him.”
The fisherman and the viscount held on by each other.
“He does na see her, or maybe he'd tak hairt.”
“I'd give ten thousand pounds if only he could see her. My God, the man will be drowned under our eyes. If he but saw her!!!”
The words had hardly left Lord Ipsden's lips, when the sound of a woman's voice came like an AEolian note across the water.
“Hurraih!” roared Liston, and every creature joined the cheer.
“She'll no let him dee. Ah! she's in the bows, hailing him an' waving the lad's bonnet ower her head to gie him coorage. Gude bless ye, lass; Gude bless ye!”
Christie knew it was no use hailing him against the wind, but the moment she got the wind she darted into the bows, and pitched in its highest key her full and brilliant voice; after a moment of suspense she received proof that she must be heard by him, for on the pier now hung men and women, clustered like bees, breathless with anxiety, and the moment after she hailed the drowning man, she saw and heard a wild yell of applause burst from the pier, and the pier was more distant than the man. She snatched Flucker's cap, planted her foot on the gunwale, held on by a rope, hailed the poor fellow again, and waved the cap round and round her head, to give him courage; and in a moment, at the sight of this, thousands of voices thundered back their cheers to her across the water. Blow, wind—spring, boat—and you, Christie, still ring life toward those despairing ears and wave hope to those sinking eyes; cheer the boat on, you thousands that look upon this action; hurrah! from the pier; hurrah! from the town; hurrah! from the shore; hurrah! now, from the very ships in the roads, whose crews are swarming on the yards to look; five minutes ago they laughed at you; three thousand eyes and hearts hang upon you now; ay, these are the moments we live for!
And now dead silence. The boat is within fifty yards, they are all three consulting together round the mast; an error now is death; his forehead only seems above water.
“If they miss him on that tack?” said Lord Ipsden, significantly, to Liston.
“He'll never see London Brigg again,” was the whispered reply.
They carried on till all on shore thought they would run over him, or past him; but no, at ten yards distant they were all at the sail, and had it down like lightning; and then Flucker sprang to the bows, the other boy to the helm.
Unfortunately, there were but two Johnstones in the boat; and this boy, in his hurry, actually put the helm to port, instead of to starboard. Christie, who stood amidships, saw the error; she sprang aft, flung the boy from the helm and jammed it hard-a-starboard with her foot. The boat answered the helm, but too late for Flucker; the man was four yards from him as the boat drifted by.
“He's a deed mon!” cried Liston, on shore.
The boat's length gave one more little chance; the after-part must drift nearer him—thanks to Christie. Flucker flew aft; flung himself on his back, and seized his sister's petticoats.
“Fling yourself ower the gunwale,” screamed he. “Ye'll no hurt; I'se haud ye.”
She flung herself boldly over the gunwale; the man was sinking, her nails touched his hair, her fingers entangled themselves in it, she gave him a powerful wrench and brought him alongside; the boys pinned him like wild-cats.
Christie darted away forward to the mast, passed a rope round it, threw it the boys, in a moment it was under his shoulders. Christie hauled on it from the fore thwart, the boys lifted him, and they tumbled him, gasping and gurgling like a dying salmon, into the bottom of the boat, and flung net and jackets and sail over him to keep the life in him.
Ah! draw your breath all hands at sea and ashore, and don't try it again, young gentleman, for there was nothing to spare; when you were missed at the bow two stout hearts quivered for you; Lord Ipsden hid his face in his two hands, Sandy Liston gave a groan, and, when you were grabbed astern, jumped out of his boat and cried:
“A gill o' whisky for ony favor, for it's turned me as seeck as a doeg.” He added: “He may bless yon lassie's fowr banes, for she's ta'en him oot o' Death's maw, as sure as Gude's in heaven!”
Lady Barbara, who had all her life been longing to see perilous adventures, prayed and trembled and cried most piteously; and Lord Ipsden's back was to her, and he paid no attention to her voice; but when the battle was won, and Lord Ipsden turned and saw her, she clung to his arm and dried her tears; and then the Old Town cheered the boat, and the New Town cheered the boat, and the towns cheered each other; and the Johnstones, lad and lass, set their sail, and swept back in triumph to the pier; so then Lady Barbara's blood mounted and tingled in her veins like fire. “Oh, how noble!” cried she.
“Yes, dearest,” said Ipsden. “You have seen something great done at last; and by a woman, too!”
“Yes,” said Barbara, “how beautiful! oh! how beautiful it all is; only the next one I see I should like the danger to be over first, that is all.”
The boys and Christie, the moment they had saved Gatty, up sail again for Newhaven; they landed in about three minutes at the pier.
TIME. From Newhaven town to pier on foot: 1 m. 30 sec. First tack: 5 m. 30 sec. Second tack, and getting him on board: 4 m. 0 sec. Back to the pier, going free: 3 m. 30 sec.
Total: 14 m. 30 sec.
They came in to the pier, Christie sitting quietly on the thwart after her work, the boy steering, and Flucker standing against the mast, hands in his pockets; the deportment this young gentleman thought fit to assume on this occasion was “complete apathy”; he came into port with the air of one bringing home the ordinary results of his day's fishing; this was, I suppose, to impress the spectators with the notion that saving lives was an every-day affair with La Famille Johnstone; as for Gatty, he came to himself under his heap of nets and jackets and spoke once between Death's jaw and the pier.
“Beautiful!” murmured he, and was silent. The meaning of this observation never transpired, and never will in this world. Six months afterward, being subjected to a searching interrogatory, he stated that he had alluded to the majesty and freedom of a certainposeChristie had adopted while hailing him from the boat; but, reader, if he had wanted you and me to believe it was this, he should not have been half a year finding it out—increduli odimus!They landed, and Christie sprang on shore; while she was wending her way through the crowd, impeded by greetings and acclamations, with every now and then a lass waving her kerchief or a lad his bonnet over the heroine's head, poor Mrs. Gatty was receiving the attention of the New Town; they brought her to, they told her the good news—she thanked God.
The whole story had spread like wildfire; they expostulated with her, they told her now was the time to show she had a heart, and bless the young people.
She rewarded them with a valuable precept.
“Mind your own business!” said she.
“Hech! y' are a dour wife!” cried Newhaven.
The dour wife bent her eyes on the ground.
The people were still collected at the foot of the street, but they were now in knots, when in dashed Flucker, arriving by a short cut, and crying: “She does na ken, she does na ken, she was ower moedest to look, I daur say, and ye'll no tell her, for he's a blackguard, an' he's just making a fule o' the puir lass, and if she kens what she has done for him, she'll be fonder o' him than a coow o' her cauf.”
“Oh, Flucker! we maun tell her, it's her lad, her ain lad, she saved,” expostulated a woman.
“Did ever my feyther do a good turn till ye?” cried Flucker. “Awel, then, ye'll no tell the lassie, she's weel as she is; he's gaun t' Enngland the day. I cannie gie ye a' a hidin',” said he, with an eye that flashed volumes of good intention on a hundred and fifty people; “but I am feytherless and motherless, an' I can fa' on my knees an' curse ye a' if ye do us sic an ill turn, an' then ye'll see whether ye'll thrive.”
“We'll no tell, Flucker, ye need na curse us ony way.”
His lordship, with all the sharp authority of a skipper, ordered Master Flucker to the pier, with a message to the yacht; Fluckerquayachtsman was a machine, and went as a matter of course. “I am determined to tell her,” said Lord Ipsden to Lady Barbara.
“But,” remonstrated Lady Barbara, “the poor boy says he will curse us if we do.”
“He won't curse me.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the little blackguard's grog would be stopped on board the yacht if he did.”
Flucker had not been gone many minutes before loud cheering was heard, and Christie Johnstone appeared convoyed by a large detachment of the Old Town; she had tried to slip away, but they would not let her. They convoyed her in triumph till they saw the New Town people, and then they turned and left her.
She came in among the groups, a changed woman—her pallor and her listlessness were gone—the old light was in her eye, and the bright color in her cheek, and she seemed hardly to touch the earth.
“I'm just droukit, lasses,” cried she, gayly, wringing her sleeve. Every eye was upon her; did she know, or did she not know, what she had done?
Lord Ipsden stepped forward; the people tacitly accepted him as the vehicle of their curiosity.
“Who was it, Christie?”
“I dinna ken, for my pairt!”
Mrs. Gatty came out of the house.
“A handsome young fellow, I hope, Christie?” resumed Lord Ipsden.
“Ye maun ask Flucker,” was the reply. “I could no tak muckle notice, ye ken,” putting her hand before her eye, and half smiling.
“Well! I hear he is very good-looking; and I hear you think so, too.”
She glided to him and looked in his face. He gave a meaning smile. The poor girl looked quite perplexed. Suddenly she gave a violent start.
“Christie! where is Christie?” had cried a well-known voice. He had learned on the pier who had saved him—he had slipped up among the boats to find her—he could not find his hat—he could not wait for it—his dripping hair showed where he had been—it was her love whom she had just saved out of Death's very jaws.
She gave a cry of love that went through every heart, high or low, young or old, that heard it. And she went to him, through the air it seemed; but, quick as she was, another was as quick; the mother had seen him first, and she was there. Christie saw nothing. With another cry, the very keynote of her great and loving heart, she flung her arms round—Mrs. Gatty, who was on the same errand as herself.
“Hearts are not steel, and steel is bent; Hearts are not flint, and flint is rent.”
The old woman felt Christie touch her. She turned from her son in a moment and wept upon her neck. Her lover took her hand and kissed it, and pressed it to his bosom, and tried to speak to her; but all he could do was to sob and choke—and kiss her hand again.
“My daughter!” sobbed the old woman.
At that word Christie clasped her quickly; and then Christie began to cry.
“I am not a stone,” cried Mrs. Gatty.
“I gave him life; but you have saved him from death. Oh, Charles, never make her repent what she has done for you.”
She was a woman, after all; and prudence and prejudice melted like snow before her heart.
There were not many dry eyes—least of all the heroic Lady Barbara's.
The three whom a moment had made one were becoming calmer, and taking one another's hands for life, when a diabolical sound arose—and what was it but Sandy Liston, who, after furious resistance, was blubbering with explosive but short-lived violence? Having done it, he was the first to draw everybody's attention to the phenomenon; and affecting to consider it a purely physical attack, like acoup de soleil,or so on, he proceeded instantly to Drysel's for his panacea.
Lady Barbara enjoined Lord Ipsden to watch these people, and not to lose a word they said; and, after she had insisted upon kissing Christie, she went off to her carriage. And she too was so happy, she cried three distinct times on her way to Edinburgh.
Lord Ipsden, having reminded Gatty of his engagement, begged him to add his mother and Christie to the party, and escorted Lady Barbara to her phaeton.
So then the people dispersed by degrees.
“That old lady's face seems familiar to me,” said Lord Ipsden, as he stood on the little natural platform by the “Peacock.” “Do you know who she is, Saunders?”
“It is Peggy, that was cook in your lordship's uncle's time, my lord. She married a green-grocer,” added Saunders, with an injured air.
“Hech! hech!” cried Flucker, “Christie has ta'en up her head wi' a cook's son.”
Mrs. Gatty was ushered into the “Peacock” with mock civility by Mr. Saunders. No recognition took place, each being ashamed of the other as an acquaintance.
The next arrival was a beautiful young lady in a black silk gown, a plain but duck-like plaid shawl, who proved to be Christie Johnstone, in her Sunday attire.
When they met, Mrs. Gatty gave a little scream of joy, and said: “Oh, my child; if I had seen you in that dress, I should never have said a word against you.”
“Pars minima est ipsa puella sui!”
His lordship stepped up to her, took off his hat, and said: “Will Mrs. Gatty take from me a commission for two pictures, as big as herself, and as bonny?” added he, doing a little Scotch. He handed her a check; and, turning to Gatty, added, “At your convenience, sir,bien entendu.”
“Hech! it's for five hundred pund, Chairles.”
“Good gear gangs in little book,” * said Jean.