at this juncture it struck bourhope, riding home from the morning drill, to ask himself what could possibly take chrissy hunter out so early every morning. he had already seen her once or twice, keeping out of the way of [page 281]him and his companions, and returning again from the opposite end of priorton, which was flanked by the doctor's house. corrie, he noticed, was never with her. indeed, bourhope had a strong suspicion that corrie retreated to her pillow again after showing him her lovely face—lovely even in the pink curl-papers. but chrissy certainly dressed immediately, and took a morning walk, by which her complexion at least did not profit. not being a very strong little woman, her brown face was apt to look jaded and streaky, when bourhope, resting from the fatigues of his drill, lounged with the girls in the early forenoon in mrs. spottiswoode's drawing-room. so it was worth while, he thought, to spur up to chrissy, and inquire what took her abroad at such an untimely hour.
when bourhope caught a nearer glimpse of chrissy he was rather dismayed to see that she had been crying. bourhope hated to see girls crying, particularly girls like chrissy, to whom it was not becoming. he had no particular fancy for cinderellas or other beggar-maids. he would have hated to find that his kinsfolk and friendly host and hostess, for whom he had a considerable regard, were mean enough and base enough to maltreat a poor little guest of their own invitation. notwithstanding these demurs, tom spottiswoode of bourhope rode so fast up to chrissy as to cause her to give a violent start when she turned.
"hallo! do you go to market, miss chrissy? or what on earth takes you out in the town before the shutters are down?" pointing with his sheathed sword to a closed shop.
[page 282]chrissy was taken aback, and there was something slightly hysterical in her laugh, but she answered frankly enough, "i go to dr. stark's, mr. spottiswoode. dr. stark attends my mother, and is at blackfaulds every day. i wait in his laboratory till he comes there before setting out; he goes his rounds early, you know. he lets me know how mother was yesterday, and as he is a kind man, he carries our letters,—maggie and arabella and i are great writers, and postage comes to be expensive—a great deal too expensive for us at blackfaulds; but the doctor is a kind man, and he 'favours' our letters. and mr. spottiswoode," she said, warming with her subject and impelled to a bit of confidence, "do you know, dr. stark thinks my mother will be about again in a few months. you are aware her knee-joint has been affected. we were even afraid she would never put down her foot again. it would have been a dreadful trial for all of us." chrissy spoke simply, in a rather moved voice.
bourhope was slightly moved, too. he had never heard much about mrs. hunter, of blackfaulds, except that she was a woman who had been long ailing; and also occasional remarks about the consequences of her being lost or spared to her family.
illustration page 282
chrissy was grateful for his evident sympathy, and gratified by it; but, as if half ashamed of having elicited it, she at once began to prattle to him on other subjects. bourhope had leapt from his horse, and was doing chrissy the honour of walking at her side, his beast's bridle over his arm, and his spurs ringing on the pavement. a sparkling prattle that was of chrissy's about the fine morning, [page 283]the town, and the yeomanry—few topics, but well handled and brilliantly illustrated. bourhope had dared to confess to himself how sorry he was when he reached mr. spottiswoode's door.
next morning bourhope detached himself from his comrades when he approached the town, and looked narrowly for chrissy. it would be but civil to inquire for poor mrs. hunter. so bent was he on being thus civil, that though chrissy was far in advance, he knew her by the pink gingham trimming of her morning bonnet, fluttering like rose-leaves in the morning sun. he came up to her, and politely asked after her mother. chrissy was a little confused, but she answered pleasantly enough. she was not nearly so talkative, however, as on the preceding morning, though bourhope made witty comments on the letter she held in her hand, and pertinaciously insisted on her telling him whether she mentioned him in her return letters! he reminded her that they were cousins in a way. this was the first time chrissy had known of any one hunting up a relationship with her; and though pleased in her humility—chrissy was no fool in that humility of hers—bourhope, she knew, was destined for her cousin corrie. he was out of corrie's way just now, and was only courteous and cordial to her as living for a time under the same roof. she liked the ruddy, curly, independent, clever fellow of a farmer laird, who, out of the riches of his kindness, could be courteous and cordial to a poor plain girl. bourhope could never overtake chrissy coming from dr. stark's again. he spied and peeped and threw out hints, and hurried or loitered on the [page 284]way to no purpose. chrissy took care that people should not notice the fact of her being escorted home in the early morning by bourhope.
a chance conversation between mrs. spottiswoode and corrie was overheard one day by bourhope, when they imagined him deep in "blackwood;" for it was the days of the "noctes." mr. hunter, of redcraigs, corrie's father, had not been well one day, and a message had been sent to that effect to her. but corrie was philosophic, and not unduly alarmed. "papa makes such a work about himself," she said candidly to mrs. spottiswoode. "very likely he has only taken lobster at supper, or his jamaica rum has not agreed with him, and he is bilious this morning. i think i will send out a box of colocynth, and a bit of nice tender veal, to put him in good humour again. you know, agnes, if i were to drive out, i would not get back in time for the evening walk in the meadows. besides, i was to see miss aikin about the change in the running on of my frills. it would overturn all my plans to go, and my head gets so hot, and i look so blowsy, when my plans are disarranged," corrie concluded, almost piteously.
"yes, but corrie," hesitated mrs. spottiswoode, "you know dr. stark is not easy about papa just now. i think i had better go out myself. it is unlucky that spottiswoode is to have several other yeomen who do business at the bank, at dinner to-day with bourhope; but i dare say mary will manage that, as chrissy will mix the pudding for her. so i will go myself to redcraigs; all things considered, it would be a pity for you not to be in your best looks——"
[page 285]bourhope at this point fell into a fit of coughing, and lost the rest of the dialogue; but perhaps his occasional snort of disapprobation was called forth as much by this interlude as by the audacious judgments of the shepherd and tickler.
the day unluckily turned out very rainy, and the drill was gone through in a dense white mist, which caused every horse to loom large as an elephant, and every rider to look a gog or magog. the young ladies, so fond of a change of costume at this time in priorton, could do no shopping; the walk in the meadows at sunset with the lounging yeomen had to be given up. the green meadows were not inviting, the grass was dripping, the flowers closed and heavy, the river red and drumly. all was disappointing; for the meadows were beautiful at this season with their summer snow of daisies—not dead-white snow either, for it was broken by patches of yellow buttercups, crow's-foot, lady's-finger, and vetch, and by the crimson clover flowers and the rusty red of sorrel, and the black pert heads of the nib-wort plaintain, whose black upon the white of ox-eye daisies has the rich tone of ermine.
instead of walks, there were gatherings round shining tables; and bottles and glasses clinked cheerily in many a parlour. but mr. spottiswoode was sober by inclination. the impressiveness of office, which had quite the contrary effect on many provosts of his era, only added to his characteristic caution. the yeomen, too, knew well where hilarity ended and excess began. so there was little fear of excess in mr. spottiswoode's house. mrs. spottiswoode, a genius in her own line, had a cheerful fire in her [page 286]drawing-room, and sat by the hearth with her children tumbling round her, while corrie, fairer than ever in the blinking fire-light, and chrissy, brown and merry, sat on either side of her. she invited the farmer laird to enter that charmed ring, which, of course, he could not help contrasting with the loneliness and comfortlessness of bourhope. but though bourhope sat next corrie, a certain coldness crept over the well-arranged party. he caught himself glancing curiously at the book chrissy hunter had been almost burning her face in reading by the fire-light before he came in. mrs. spottiswoode did not much care for reading aloud, but she took the hint in good part, and called on chrissy to tell what her book was about, and so divert bourhope without wholly monopolizing his attention.
chrissy was rather shy at first. she never told stories freely away from home; but she was now pressed to do it. after a little, however, she put her own sympathetic humour and pathos into the wondrous narrative, till she literally held her listeners spell-bound. and no wonder. those were the days of scott's early novels, when they were greatly run after, and the price of a night's reading was high. chrissy's cousin "rob" was a bookseller's apprentice, and his master, for the purpose of enabling robbie to share his enthusiasm, would lend the apprentice an uncut copy. robbie brought it out to blackfaulds, and then all would sit up, sick mother among the rest, to hear them read aloud, till far into the small hours.
who can tell what that cordial of pure, healthful intellectual diversion may have been, even to the burdened [page 287]father and sick mother at blackfaulds! to chrissy—the very speaking of it made her clasp her hands over her knee, and her grey eyes to shine out like stars—as bourhope thought to himself.
how suggestively chrissy discoursed of glendearg, and the widow elspeth glendinning, her two lads, and martin and tib tacket, and the gentle lady and mary avenel. with what breadth, yet precision, she reproduced pursy abbot boniface, devoted prior eustace, wild christie of the clinthill, buxom mysie hopper, exquisite sir percy shafton, and even tried her hand to some purpose on the ethereal white lady. perhaps chrissy enjoyed the reading as much as the great enchanter did the writing. like great actors, she had an instinctive consciousness of the effect she produced. bourhope shouted with laughter when the incorrigible sir percy, in the disguise of the dairywoman, described his routing charge as "the milky mothers of the herd." corrie actually glanced in affright at the steaming windows and the door ajar, and pinched chrissy's arm when she repeated for the last time the words of the spell:—
"thrice to the holly brake—
thrice to the well;—
wake thee, o wake,
white maid of avenel."
the assembly paid chrissy the highest compliment an assembly can pay a speaker. they forgot their schemes, their anxieties, themselves even, to fasten their eyes and hearts on the brown girl—the book dropping from her [page 288]hand, but the story written so graphically on her memory. corrie was the first to recover herself. "oh dear!" she cried, "i have forgot i was to take down my hair for miss lothian to point it at eight o'clock," and hurried out of the room.
mrs. spottiswoode roused herself next, and spoke a few words of acknowledgment to chrissy. "upon my word, chrissy, your recital has been quite as good as the play. we are much obliged to you. i am afraid your throat must be sore; but stay, i have some of the theatre oranges here. no, bairns, you are not to have any; it is far too late for you to be up. dear me; i believe you have been listening to chrissy's story like the rest of us!" but mrs. spottiswoode was not under any apprehension about the success of chrissy's reading. mrs. spottiswoode proved this by immediately leaving chrissy tête-à-tête with bourhope while she went to put the children to bed, and see if mr. spottiswoode, who was doing a quiet turn of business in his office, would have a game of cards before supper. she had really never heard of a girl being married simply for her tongue's sake! she perhaps knew the line in the song too—
"very few marry for talking,"
and had found its truth in her own experience, for she was a shrewd, observant woman.
bourhope, it should be understood, was longest subjected to the influence of chrissy's story-telling power. indeed, when he did somewhat recover from it, his fancy created fine visions of what it would be to have such a [page 289]storyteller at bourhope during the long, dark nights of winter and the endless days of summer. bourhope was no ignoramus. he had some acquaintance with "winter's tales" and summer pastorals, but his reading was bald and tame to this inspiration. he thought to himself it would really be as good as a company of players purely for his own behoof, without any of the disadvantages. he stammered a little in expressing the debt he owed to chrissy, and she could only eagerly reply by saying, "not to me, not to me the praise, mr. spottiswoode, but to the great unknown. oh! i would like to know him."
bourhope was stimulated to do at once what he was sure to do ultimately: he presented his hospitable entertainers with a box at the play. no doubt it was a great delight to chrissy; for it was in the days when actors were respectable artists and play-going was still universal. chrissy in her freshness enjoyed the provincials as well as if they had been first-rate—took the good and left the bad, and sat quite entranced.
bourhope, although he was decidedly intellectual for his calling, watched chrissy rather than the stage. he read the feeling of the moment reflected in her sagacious yet sensitive face. once he turned round and tried the same experiment with corrie. he might as well have expected to borrow a living soul from well-moulded stucco or marble. he now realized in a more lively manner than ever, that geese may look fair and white and soft and shapely as swans till they expose their waddling. he tried in church the process he had learned at the play, and, it must be confessed, not without effect—chrissy's expres[page 290]sion giving a fair notion of the good priorton minister's earnestness and eloquence.
but at length chrissy, aware of the liberty bourhope took in thus making her his study, got restless and troubled in her sound head and warm heart. she was no fool in her simplicity. she knew that bourhope did not in any sense belong to mrs. spottiswoode and corrie, and she had shrewdly suspected of late that their anticipated arrangements would not be carried out. she could not help occasionally turning over in her mind the circumstance that cecilia was very plain, but that depressed mortimer delville nevertheless bestowed his heart on her, though the gift, like her fortune, was disastrous to cecilia for many a long day. chrissy thought that if bourhope were independent and original enough to like her—to love her—he was his own master; there was nothing between him and his inclination save her inclination and her father and mother's will. and there was little doubt about father and mother's will with respect to a man so worthy, so unexceptionable, and so well endowed as bourhope.
nor was there anything like duty to the spottiswoodes to stand between bourhope and chrissy. but still chrissy's nice sense of honour was disturbed, for had she not a guess that a very different result had been expected? nay, she had even a half-comical notion that she herself had been expressly selected as a companion to corrie hunter during the gaieties of the yeomanry weeks, because she would also prove a sort of harmless foil.
a dream of love was a grand shock to chrissy's quiet life, making wild yet plaintive music, like all nature's true [page 291]harmonies, within her, and filling her mind with tremulous light which glorified every object, and was fain even to dazzle herself. it was not unnatural that bourhope should excite such a dream. but chrissy was not completely dazzled. it was only a dream as yet, and she would be the mistress of her dream; it should not be the mistress of her. so she resolved, showing herself a reasonable, thoughtful, conscientious woman, as well as a loving, fairly proportioned, and lovely human spirit.
chrissy retained all her sober senses. she recollected what was due both to the hero and to the others concerned. she was neither a weak victim, nor a headstrong, arrogant, malicious conqueror. like all genuine women, she struggled against yielding herself without her due—without a certainty that there was no irreversible mistake in the matter. she was not a girl to get love-sick at the first bout, nor one to run even at a worthy lover's beckoning, though she would sacrifice much, and do it proudly, joyously, for true affection, when once it had confessed itself. so she shrank from bourhope, slipped away from, and managed to avoid him. he was puzzled and vexed, and almost exasperated by doubts as to whether she cared for or wished to accept his notice and regards. little brown chrissy taught the bold yeoman a lesson in her own quiet way. she slowly forced upon him the conviction that any gifts or attainments of his—the prosperous, cultivated farmer laird—were as dross compared with the genius and acquirements of chrissy hunter, whom many short-sighted men called insignificant and plain amid the poverty and cares of blackfaulds. bourhope was not radi[page 292]cally mercenary: he had no certainty that his superiority in worldly estate would secure the strange good upon which he set his heart, and he was at once stimulated and incensed by her indifference to his advances. so he had no communication with chrissy, apart from a demure interchange of words in general conversation, for three days before the grand review and the ball, except in a single incident of the pipe-claying of his belts.
the gentlemen of the old yeomanry who had not servants to do it for them, did their own pipe-claying, and might generally be seen doing it very indifferently to the accompaniment of private whistling or social bawling to each other over adjacent walls in the back courts and greens of priorton. bourhope was one day doing his rather gloomily in the back court, and succeeding very ill, when chrissy, who saw him from a window, could endure it no longer. chrissy was not what most intellectual women are described as being—an abstracted, scared being, with two left hands. the exigency of her situation as eldest daughter at blackfaulds had rendered her as handy as other girls, and only unlike them in being a great deal more fertile in resource. how could such a woman stand and see bourhope destroying his accoutrements, and in danger of smearing himself from head to foot with pipe-clay? chrissy came tripping out, and addressed him with some sharpness—"that is not right, mr. spottiswoode; you will never whiten your belt in that way, you will only soil the rest of your clothes. i watched the old sergeant doing it next-door for major christison. look here:" and she took the article out of his hands, and pro[page 293]ceeded smartly to clean it. poor bourhope bowed to her empire, though he would much rather their positions had been reversed: he would rather a thousand times have brushed chrissy's shoes than that she should clean his belt. she was gone again the moment she had directed him. a portion of his belt was now as white as snow; but nothing would have induced her to stay.
bourhope was new to the humiliations as well as the triumphs of love—that extreme ordeal through which even tolerably wise and sincere spirits must pass before they can unite in a strictness of union deserving the name. he was not exactly grateful for the good suggestion; indeed, he had a little fight against chrissy in his own breast just then. he told himself it was all a whim, he did not really care for the girl—one of a large family in embarrassed circumstances. no, it would be absurd to fall in love with a little coffee-coloured girl whose one shoulder was a fraction of an inch further out than the other. he was not compelled to marry either corrie or chrissy—not he! poeh! he was not yet half through with his bachelor days. he would look about a little longer, enjoy himself a little more. at the word enjoyment bourhope stopped short, as if he had caught himself tripping. if chrissy hunter was ugly, she was an ugly fairy. she was his fate, indeed; he would never see her like again, and he would be a lost and wrecked man without her.
