CHRISTIE, THE KING'S SERVANT
A Sequel to 'Christie's Old Organ'
By MRS. O.F. WALTON
AUTHOR OF 'CHRISTIE'S OLD ORGAN'
'A PEEP BEHIND THE SCENES'
'THE KING'S CUPBEARER'
'SHADOWS' ETC ETC
[Illustration]
Contents
CHAPTER
I RUNSWICK BAY
II LITTLE JOHN
III STRANGE MUSIC
IV WHAT ARE YOU?
V THE RUNSWICK SPORTS
VI THE TUG OF WAR
VII OVER THE LINE
VIII A NIGHT OF STORM
IX ASK WHAT YE WILL
X WE KNOW
XI LITTLE JACK AND BIG JACK
XII WHERE ARE YOU GOING?
[Illustration]
Chapter I
RUNSWICK BAY
It was the yellow ragwort that did it! I have discovered the clue at
last. All night long I have been dreaming of Runswick Bay. I have been
climbing the rocks, talking to the fishermen, picking my way over the
masses of slippery seaweed, and breathing the fresh briny air. And all
the morning I have been saying to myself, 'What can have made me dream
of Runswick Bay? What can have brought the events of my short stay in
that quaint little place so vividly before me?' Yes, I am convinced of
it; it was that bunch of yellow ragwort on the mantelpiece in my
bedroom. My little Ella gathered it in the lane behind the house
yesterday morning, and brought it in triumphantly, and seized the best
china vase in the drawing-room, and filled it with water at the tap, and
thrust the great yellow bunch into it.
'Oh, Ella,' said Florence, her elder sister, 'what ugly common flowers!
How could you put them in mother's best vase, that Aunt Alice gave her
on her birthday! What a silly child you are!'
'I'm not a silly child,' aid Ella stoutly, 'and mother is sure to like
them; I know she will. _She_ won't call them common flowers. She
loves all yellow flowers. She said so when I brought her the daffodils;
and these are yellower, ever so much yellower.'
Her mother came in at this moment, and, taking our little girl on her
knee, she told her that she was quite right; they were very beautiful in
her eyes, and she would put them at once in her own room, where she
could have them all to herself.
And that is how it came about, that, as I lay in bed, the last thing my
eyes fell upon was Ella's bunch of yellow ragwort; and what could be
more natural than that I should go to sleep and dream of Runswick Bay?
It seems only yesterday that I was there, so clearly can I recall it,
and yet it must be twenty years ago. I think I must write an account of
my visit to Runswick Bay and give it to Ella, as it was her yellow
flowers which took me back to the picturesque little place. If she
cannot understand all I tell her now, she will learn to do so as she
grows older.
I was a young man then, just beginning to make my way as an artist. It
is slow work at first; until you have made a name, every one looks
critically at your work; when once you have been pronounced a rising
artist, every daub from your brush has a good market value. I had had
much uphill work, but I loved my profession for its own sake, and I
worked on patiently, and, at the time my story begins, several of my
pictures had sold for fair prices, and I was not without hope that I
might soon find a place in the Academy.
It was an unusually hot summer, and London was emptying fast. Every one
who could afford it was going either to the moors or to the sea, and I
felt very much inclined to follow their example. My father and mother
had died when I was quite a child, and the maiden aunt who had brought
me up had just passed away, and I had mourned her death very deeply, for
she had been both father and mother to me. I felt that I needed change
of scene, for I had been up for many nights with her during her last
illness, and I had had my rest broken for so long, that I found it very
difficult to sleep, and in many ways I was far from well. My aunt had
left all her little property to me, so that the means to leave London
and to take a suitable holiday were not wanting. The question was, where
should I go? I was anxious to combine, if possible, pleasure and
business--that is to say, I wished to choose some quiet place where I
could get bracing air and thorough change of scene, and where I could
also find studies for my new picture, which was (at least, so I fondly
dreamed) to find a place in the Academy the following spring.
It was whilst I was looking for a suitable spot that Tom Bernard, my
great friend and confidant, found one for me.
'Jack, old fellow,' he said, thrusting a torn newspaper into my hand,
'read that, old man.'
The newspaper was doubled down tightly, and a great red cross of Tom's
making showed me the part he wished me to read.
RUNSWICK BAY.
This charming seaside resort is not half so well known
as it deserves to be. For the lover of the beautiful,
for the man with an artistic eye, it possesses a charm
which words would fail to describe. The little bay is a
favourite resort for artists; they, at least, know how
to appreciate its beauties. It would be well for any who
may desire to visit this wonderfully picturesque and
enchanting spot to secure hotel or lodging-house
accommodation as early as possible, for the demand for
rooms is, in August and September, far greater than the
supply.
'Well, what do you think of it?' said Tom.
'It sounds just the thing,' I said; 'fresh air and plenty to paint.'
'Shall you go?'
'Yes, to-morrow,' I replied; 'the sooner the better.'
My bag was soon packed, my easel and painting materials were collected,
and the very next morning I was on my way into Yorkshire.
It was evening when I reached the end of my long, tiring railway
journey; and when, hot and dusty, I alighted at a village which lay
about two miles from my destination. I saw no sign of beauty as I walked
from the station; the country was slightly undulating in parts, but as a
rule nothing met my gaze but a long flat stretch of field after field,
covered, as the case might be, with grass or corn. Harebells and pink
campion grew on the banks, and the meadows were full of ox-eye daisies;
but I saw nothing besides that was in the least attractive, and
certainly nothing of which I could make a picture.
A family from York had come by the same train, and I had learnt from
their conversation that they had engaged lodgings for a month at
Runswick Bay. The children, two boys of ten and twelve, and a little
fair-haired girl a year or two younger, were full of excitement on their
arrival.
'Father, where is the sea?' they cried. 'Oh, we do want to see the sea!'
'Run on,' said their father, 'and you will soon see it.'
So we ran together, for I felt myself a child again as I watched them,
and if ever I lagged behind, one or other of them would turn round and
cry, 'Come on, come on; we shall soon see it.'
Then, suddenly, we came to the edge of the high cliff, and the sea in
all its beauty and loveliness burst upon us. The small bay was shut in
by rocks on either side, and on the descent of the steep cliff was built
the little fishing village. I think I have never seen a prettier place.
The children were already running down the steep, rocky path--I cannot
call it a road--which led down to the sea, and I followed more slowly
behind them. It was the most curiously built place. The fishermen's
cottages were perched on the rock, wherever a ledge or standing place
could be found. Steep, narrow paths, or small flights of rock-hewn
steps, led from one to another. There was no street in the whole place;
there could be none, for there were hardly two houses which stood on the
same level. To take a walk through this quaint village was to go up and
down stairs the whole time.
At last, after a long, downward scramble, I found myself on the shore,
and then I looked back at the cliff and at the irregular little town. I
did not wonder that artists were to be found there. I had counted four
as I came down the hill, perched on different platforms on the rock, and
all hard at work at their easels.
Yes, it was certainly a picturesque place, and I was glad that I had
come. The colouring was charming: there was red rock in the background,
here and there covered with grass, and ablaze with flowers. Wild roses
and poppies, pink-thrift and white daisies, all contributed to make the
old rock gay. But the yellow ragwort was all over; great patches of it
grew even on the margin of the sand, and its bright flowers gave the
whole place a golden colouring. There seemed to be yellow everywhere,
and the red-tiled cottages, and the fishermen in their blue jerseys, and
the countless flights of steps, all appeared to be framed in the
brightest gilt.
Yes, I felt sure I should find something to paint in Runswick Bay. I was
not disappointed in Tom's choice for me.
[Illustration]