GATTY'S back was hardly turned when a visitor arrived, and inquired, "Is Mr. Gatty at home?"
"What's your will wi' him?" was the Scottish reply.
"Will you give him this?"
" What est?"
"Are you fond of asking questions?" inquired the man.
"Ay! and fules canna answer them," retorted Christie.
The little document which the man, in retiring, left with Christie Johnstone purported to come from one Victoria, who seemed, at first sight, disposed to show Charles Gatty civilities. "Victoria--to Charles Gatty, greeting! (salutem)." Christie was much struck with this instance of royal affability; she read no further, but began to think, "Victoree! that's the queen hersel. A letter fra the queen to a painter lad! Picters will rise i' the mairket--it will be an order to paint the bairns. I hae brought him luck; I am real pleased." And on Gatty's return, canvas in hand, she whipped the document behind her, and said archly, "I hae something for ye, a tecket fra a leddy, ye'll no want siller fra this day."
"Indeed!"
"Ay! indeed, fra a great leddy; it's vara gude o' me to gie ye it; heh! tak it."
He did take it, looked stupefied, looked again, sunk into a chair, and glared at it.
"Laddy!" said Christie.
"This is a new step on the downward path," said the poor painter.
"Is it no an orrder to paint the young prence?" said Christie, faintly.
"No!" almost shrieked the victim. "It's a writ! I owe a lot of money.
"Oh, Chairles!"
"See! I borrowed sixty pounds six months ago of a friend, so now I owe eighty!"
"All right!" giggled the unfriendly visitor at the door, whose departure had been more or less fictitious.
Christie, by an impulse, not justifiable, but natural, drew her oyster-knife out, and this time the man really went away.
"Hairtless mon!" cried she, "could he no do his am dirrty work, and no gar me gie the puir lad th' action, and he likeit me sae weel!" and she began to whimper.
"And love you more now," said he; "don't you cry, dear, to add to my vexation."
"Na! I'll no add to your vexation," and she gulped down her tears.
"Besides, I have pictures painted worth two hundred pounds; this is only for eighty. To be sure you can't sell them for two hundred pence when you want. So I shall go to jail, but they won't keep me long.
Then he took a turn, and began to fall into the artistic, or true view of matters, which, indeed, was never long absent from him.
"Look here, Christie," said he, "I am sick of conventional assassins, humbugging models, with dirty beards, that knit their brows, and try to look murder; they never murdered so much as a tom-cat. I always go in for the real thing, and here I shall find it."
"Dinna gang in there, lad, for ony favor."
"Then I shall find the accessories of a picture I have in my head--chains with genuine rust and ancient mouldering stones with the stains of time."
His eye brightened at the prospect.
"You among fiefs, and chains, and stanes! Ye'll break my hairt, laddy, ye'll no be easy till you break my hairt." And this time the tears would not be denied.
"I love you for crying; don't cry;" and he fished from the chaotic drawer a cambric handkerchief, with which he dried her tears as they fell.
It is my firm belief she cried nearly twice as much as she really wanted to; she contrived to make the grief hers, the sympathy his. Suddenly she stopped, and said:
"I'm daft; ye'll accept a lane o' the siller fra me, will ye no?"
"No!" said he. "And where could you find eighty pound?"
"Auchty pund," cried she, "it's no auchty pund that will ding Christie Johnstone, laddy. I hae boats and nets worth twa auchtys; and I hae forty pund laid by; and I hae seven hundred pund at London, but that I canna meddle. My feyther lent it the king or the queen, I dinna justly mind; she pays me the interest twice the year. Sac ye ken I could na be sae dirty as seek my siller, when she pays me th' interest. To the very day, ye ken. She's just the only one o' a' my debtors that's hoenest, but never heed, ye'll no gang to jail."
"I'll hold my tongue, and sacrifice my pictures," thought Charles.
"Cheer up!" said Christie, mistaking the nature of his thoughts, "for it did na come fra Victoree hersel'. It wad smell o' the musk, ye ken. Na, it's just a wheen blackguards at London that makes use o' her name to torment puir folk. Wad she pairsecute a puir lad? No likely."
She then asked questions, some of which were embarrassing. One thing he could never succeed in making her understand, how, since it was sixty pounds he borrowed, it could be eighty pounds he owed.
Then once more she promised him her protection, bade him be of good cheer, and left him.
At the door she turned, and said: "Chairles, here's an auld wife seeking ye," and vanished.
These two young people had fallen acquainted at a Newhaven wedding.
Christie, belonging to no one, had danced with him all the night, they had walked under the stars to cool themselves, for dancing reels, with heart and soul, is not quadrilling.
Then he had seen his beautiful partner in Edinburgh, and made a sketch of her, which he gave her; and by and by he used to run down to Newhaven, and stroll up and down a certain green lane near the town.
Next, on Sunday evenings, a long walk together, and then it came to visits at his place now and then.
And here. Raphael and Fornarina were inverted, our artist used to work, and Christie tell him stories the while.
And, as her voice curled round his heart, he used to smile and look, and lay inspired touches on his subject.
And she, an artist of the tongue (without knowing herself one), used to make him grave, or gay, or sad, at will, and watch the effect of her art upon his countenance; and a very pretty art it is--the _viva voce_ story-teller's--and a rare one among the nations of Europe.
Christie had not learned it in a day; when she began, she used to tell them like the other Newhaven people, with a noble impartiality of detail, wearisome to the hearer.
