

E-text prepared by Joel Erickson, Michael Ciesielski, David Garcia, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team



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]




Chapter II

LITTLE JOHN


After admiring the beauties of my new surroundings for some little time,
I felt that I must begin to look for quarters. I was anxious, if
possible, to find a lodging in one of the cottages, and then, after a
good night's rest, I would carefully select a good subject for my
picture. I called at several houses, where I noticed a card in the
window announcing _Apartments to Let_, but I met the same answer
everywhere, 'Full, sir, quite full.' In one place I was offered a bed in
the kitchen, but the whole place smelt so strongly of fried herrings and
of fish oil, that I felt it would be far more pleasant to sleep on the
beach than to attempt to do so in that close and unwholesome atmosphere.

After wandering up and down for some time, I passed a house close to the
village green, and saw the children with whom I had travelled sitting at
tea close to the open window. They, too, were eating herrings, and the
smell made me hungry. I began to feel that it was time I had something
to eat, and I thought my best plan would be to retrace my steps to the
hotel which I had passed on my way, and which stood at the very top of
the high cliff. I turned a little lazy when I thought of the climb, for
I was tired with my journey, and, as I said before, I was not very
strong, and to drag my bag and easel up the rugged ascent would require
a mighty effort at the best of times. I noticed that wooden benches had
been placed here and there on the different platforms of the rock, for
the convenience of the fishermen, and I determined to rest for a quarter
of an hour on one of them before retracing my steps up the steep hill to
the hotel. The fishermen were filling most of the seats, sitting side by
side, row after row of them, talking together, and looking down at the
beach below. As I gazed up at them, they looked to me like so many blue
birds perched on the steep rock.

There was one seat in a quiet corner which I noticed was empty. I went
to it, and laying my knapsack and other belongings beside me, I sat down
to rest.

But I was not long to remain alone. A minute afterwards a young
fisherman, dressed like his mates in blue jersey and oilskin cap,
planted himself on the other end of the seat which I had selected.

'Good-day, sir,' he said. 'What do you think of our bay?'

'It's a pretty place, very pretty,' I said. 'I like it well enough now,
but I daresay I shall like it better still to-morrow.'

'Better still to-morrow,' he repeated; 'well, it _is_ the better
for knowing, in my opinion, sir, and I _ought_ to know, if any one
should, for I've lived my lifetime here.'

I turned to look at him as he spoke, and I felt at once that I had come
across one of Nature's gentlemen. He was a fine specimen of an honest
English fisherman, with dark eyes and hair, and with a sunny smile on
his weather-beaten, sunburnt face. You had only to look at the man to
feel sure that you could trust him, and that, like Nathanael, there was
no guile in him.

'I wonder if you could help me,' I said; 'I want to find a room here if
I can, but every place seems so full.'

'Yes, it is full, sir, in August; that's the main time here. Let me see,
there's Brown's, they're full, and Robinson's, and Wilson's, and
Thomson's, all full up. There's Giles', they have a room, I believe, but
they're not over clean; maybe you're particular, sir.'

'Well,' I said, 'I do like things clean; I don't mind how rough they are
if they're only clean.'

'Ah,' he said, with a twinkle in his eye; 'you wouldn't care for one pan
to do all the work of the house--to boil the dirty clothes, and the
fish, and your bit of pudding for dinner, and not overmuch cleaning of
it in between.'

'No,' I said, laughing; 'I should not like that, certainly.'

'Might give the pudding a flavour of stockings, and a sauce of fish
oil,' he answered. 'Well, you're right, sir; I shouldn't like it myself.
Cleanliness is next to godliness, that's my idea. Well, then, that being
as it is, I wouldn't go to Giles', not if them is your sentiments with
regard to pans, sir.'

'Then I suppose there's nothing for it but to trudge up to the hotel at
the top of the hill,' I said, with something of a groan.

'Well, sir,' he said, hesitating a little;'me and my missus, we have a
room as we lets sometimes, but it's a poor place, sir, homely like, as
ye may say. Maybe you wouldn't put up with it.'

'Would you let me see it?' I asked.

'With pleasure, sir; it's rough, but it's clean. We could promise you a
clean pan, sir. My missus she's a good one for cleaning; she's not one
of them slatternly, good-for-nothing lasses. There's heaps of them here,
sir, idling away their time. She's a good girl is my Polly. Why, if that
isn't little John a-clambering up the steps to his daddy!'

He jumped up as he said this, and ran quickly down the steep flight of
steps which led down from the height on which the seat was placed, and
soon returned with a little lad about two years old in his arms.

The child was as fair as his father was dark. He was a pretty boy with
light hair and blue eyes, and was tidily dressed in a bright red cap and
clean white-pinafore.

'Tea's ready, daddy,' said the boy; 'come home with little John.'

'Maybe you wouldn't object to a cup o' tea, sir,' said the father,
turning to me; 'it'll hearten you up a bit after your journey, and
there's sure to be herrings. We almost lives on herrings here, sir, and
then, if you're so minded, you can look at the room after. Ye'll excuse
me if I make too bold, sir,' he added, as he gently patted little John's
tiny hand, which rested on his arm.

'I shall be only too glad to come,' I said; 'for I am very hungry, and
if Polly's room is as nice as I think it will be, it will be just the
place for me.'

He walked in front of me, up and down several flights of steps, until,
at some little distance lower down the hill, he stopped before a small
cottage. Sure enough there were herrings, frying and spluttering on the
fire, and there too was Polly herself, arrayed in a clean white apron,
and turning the herrings with a fork. The kitchen was very low, and the
rafters seemed resting on my head as I entered; but the window and door
were both wide open, and the whole place struck me as being wonderfully
sweet and clean. A low wooden settle stood by the fire, one or two plain
deal chairs by the wall, and little John's three-legged stool was placed
close to his father's arm-chair. A small shelf above the fireplace held
the family library. I noticed a Bible, a hymn-book, a _Pilgrim's
Progress_, and several other books, all of which had seen their best
days and were doubtless in constant use. On the walls were prints in
wooden frames and much discoloured by the turf smoke of the fire. Upon a
carved old oak cupboard, which held the clothes of the family, were
arranged various rare shells and stones, curious sea-urchins and other
treasures of the sea, and in the centre, the chief ornament of the house
and the pride of Polly's heart, a ship, carved and rigged by Duncan
himself, and preserved carefully under a glass shade.

Polly gave me a hearty Yorkshire welcome, and we soon gathered about the
small round table. Duncan, with little John on his knee, asked a
blessing, and Polly poured out the tea, and we all did justice to the
meal.

The more I saw of these honest people, the more I liked them and felt
inclined to trust them. When tea was over, Polly took me to see the
guest-chamber in which her husband had offered me a bed. It was a low
room in the roof, containing a plain wooden bedstead, one chair, a small
wash-hand stand, and a square of looking-glass hanging on the wall.
There was no other furniture, and, indeed, there was room for no other,
and the room was unadorned except by three or four funeral cards in
dismal black frames, which were hanging at different heights on the wall
opposite the bed. But the square casement window was thrown wide open,
and the pure sea air filled the little room, and the coarse white
coverings of the bed were spotless, and, indeed, the whole place looked
and felt both fresh and clean.

'You'll pardon me, sir,' said Duncan, 'for asking you to look at such a
poor place.'

'But I like it, Duncan,' I answered, 'and I like you, and I like your
wife, and if you will have me as a lodger, I am willing and glad to
stay.'

The terms were soon agreed upon to the satisfaction of both parties, and
then all things being settled, Polly went to put little John to bed
whilst I went with Duncan to see his boat.

It was an old boat, and it had been his father's before him, and it had
weathered many a storm; but it was the dream of Duncan's life to buy a
new one, and he and Polly had nearly saved up money enough for it.

'That's why me and the missus is glad to get a lodger now and again,' he
said; 'it all goes to the boat, every penny of it. We mean to call her
The Little John. He's going in her the very first voyage she takes; he
is indeed, sir, for he'll be her captain one day, please God, little
John will.'

It was a calm, beautiful evening; the sea was like a sheet of glass.
Hardly a ripple was breaking on the shore. The sun was setting behind
the cliff, and the fishing village would soon be in darkness. The
fishermen were leaving their cottages and were making for the shore.
Already some of the boats were launched, and the men were throwing in
their nets and fishing-tackle, and were pulling out to sea. I enjoyed
watching my new friend making his preparations. His three mates brought
out the nets, and he gave his orders with a tone of command. He was the
owner and the captain of the Mary Ann, and the rest were accustomed to
do his bidding.

When all were on board, Duncan himself jumped in and gave the word to
push from shore. He nodded to me and bid me good-night, and when he was
a little way from shore, I saw him stand up in the boat and wave his
oil-skin cap to some one above me on the cliff.

I looked up, and saw Polly standing on the rock overhanging the shore
with little John in his white nightgown in her arms. He was waving his
red cap to his father, and continued to do so till the boat was out of
sight.




Chapter III

STRANGE MUSIC


I slept well in my strange little bedroom, although I was awakened early
by the sunlight streaming in at the window. I jumped up and looked out.
The sun was rising over the sea, and a flood of golden light was
streaming across it.

I dressed quickly and went out. Very few people were about, for the
fishermen had not yet returned from their night's fishing. The cliff
looked even more beautiful than the night before, for every bit of
colouring stood out clear and distinct in the sunshine. 'I shall get my
best effects in the morning,' I said to myself, 'and I had better choose
my subject at once, so that after breakfast I may be able to begin
without delay.'

How many steps I went up, and how many I went down, before I came to a
decision, it would be impossible to tell; but at last I found a place
which seemed to me to be the very gem of the whole village. An old
disused boat stood in the foreground, and over this a large fishing net,
covered with floats, was spread to dry. Behind rose the rocks, covered
with tufts of grass, patches of gorse, tall yellow mustard plants and
golden ragwort, and at the top of a steep flight of rock-hewn steps
stood a white cottage with red-tiled roof, the little garden in front of
it gay with hollyhocks and dahlias. A group of barefooted children were
standing by the gate feeding some chickens and ducks, a large dog was
lying asleep at the top of the steps, and a black cat was basking in the
morning sunshine on the low garden wall. It was, to my mind, an
extremely pretty scene, and it made me long to be busy with my brush.

I hurried back to my lodging, and found Polly preparing my breakfast,
whilst little John looked on. He was sitting in his nightgown, curled up
in his father's armchair. 'I'm daddy,' he called out to me as I came in.

There was a little round table laid ready for me, and covered with a
spotlessly clean cloth, and on it was a small black teapot, and a white
and gold cup and saucer, upon which I saw the golden announcement, 'A
present from Whitby,' whilst my plate was adorned with a remarkable
picture of Whitby Abbey in a thunderstorm.

There were herrings, of course, and Polly had made some hot cakes, the
like of which are never seen outside Yorkshire. These were ready
buttered, and were lying wrapped in a clean cloth in front of the fire.
Polly made the tea as soon as I entered, and then retired with little
John in her arms into the bedroom, whilst I sat down with a good
appetite to my breakfast.

I had not quite finished my meal when I heard a great shout from the
shore. Women and children, lads and lasses, ran past the open door,
crying, 'The boats! the boats!' Polly came flying into the kitchen,
caught up little John's red cap, thrust it on his head, and ran down the
steps. I left my breakfast unfinished, and followed them.

It was a pretty sight. The fishing-boats were just nearing shore, and
almost every one in the place had turned out to meet them.

Wives, children, and visitors were gathered on the small landing place;
most had dishes or plates in their hands, for the herrings could be
bought straight from the boats. The family from York were there, and
they greeted me as an old friend.

When the little village had been abundantly supplied with fish, the rest
of the herrings were packed up and sent off by train to be sold
elsewhere. It was a pretty animated scene, and I wished I had brought my
sketchbook with me. I thought the arrival of the fishing boats would
make a splendid subject for a picture.

Duncan was too busy even to see me till the fish were all landed,
counted, and disposed of, but he had time for a word with little John,
and as I was finishing my breakfast he came in with the child perched on
his shoulder.

'Good morning, sir,' he said; 'and how do you like our bay this
morning?'

My answer fully satisfied him, and whilst he sat down to his morning
meal I went out to begin my work. It was a lovely day, and I thoroughly
enjoyed the prospect before me. I found a shady place just under the
wall of a house, where my picture would be in sunlight and I and my
easel in shadow. I liked the spot I had chosen even better than I had
done before breakfast, and I was soon hard at work.

I had sketched in my picture, and was beginning to paint, when I became
conscious of the sound of voices just over my head, and I soon became
equally conscious that they were talking about me.

'It's just like it,' said one voice. 'Look--do look. There's Betty
Green's cottage, and Minnie the cat, and the seat, and the old boat.'

[Illustration]

'Let me see, Marjorie,' said another voice; 'is it the old one with
white hair and a long, long beard?'

'No, it's quite a young one; his hair's black, and he hasn't got a beard
at all.'

'Let me look. Yes, I can see him. I like him much better than the old
one; hasn't he got nice red cheeks?'

'Hush! he'll hear,' said the other voice. 'You naughty boy! I believe he
did hear; I saw him laugh.'

I jumped up at this, and looked up, but I could see nothing but a garden
wall and a thick bushy tree, which was growing just inside it.

'Hullo, who's there?' I shouted.

But there was dead silence; and as no one appeared, and nothing more
happened, I sat down and went on with my picture.

Many people passed by as I was painting, and tried to look at what I was
doing. Some glanced out of the corners of their eyes as they walked on;
others paused behind me and silently watched me; a few made remarks to
one another about my picture; one or two offered suggestions, thought I
should have had a better view lower down the hill, or hoped that I would
make the colouring vivid enough. The children with whom I had travelled
seemed to feel a kind of partnership in my picture.

'Let's go and look at _our_ artist,' Bob would say to Harry; 'his
picture is going to be the best of the lot.'

They were so fond of watching me, and so much excited over what I was
doing, that, as time went on, I was often obliged to ask them to move
further away, so eager were they to watch every movement of my brush.

I thoroughly enjoyed my morning's work, and went back very hungry, and
quite ready for the comfortable little dinner which Polly had prepared
for me. In the afternoon the light would be all wrong for my picture;
but I determined to sketch in the foreground, and prepare for my next
morning's work.

I was very busy upon this, when suddenly I became conscious of music, if
music it could be called. It was the most peculiar sound, and at first I
could not find out from whence it came. It was evidently not caused by a
wind instrument; I felt sure it was not a concertina or an accordion.
This sound would go on for a minute or two, and then stop suddenly, only
to begin again more loudly a few seconds later. At times I distinguished
a few bars of a tune, then only disjointed notes followed. Could it be a
child strumming idly on a harmonium? but no, it was not at all like an
instrument of that kind. It was an annoying, worrying sound, and it went
on for so long that I began to be vexed with it, and stamped my foot
impatiently when, after a short interval, I heard it begin again. The
sound seemed to come from behind the wall of the house near which I was
sitting, and it was repeated from time to time during the whole of the
afternoon.

At length, as the afternoon went on, I began to distinguish what tunes
were being attempted. I made out a bar or two of the old French
Republican air, 'The Marseillaise,' and then I was almost startled by
what came next, for it was a tune I had known well since I was a very
little child. It was 'Home, Sweet Home,' and that was my mother's
favourite tune; in fact, I never heard it without thinking of her. Many
and many a time had she sung me to sleep with that tune. I had scarlet
fever when I was five years old, and my mother had nursed me through it,
and when I was weary and fretful she would sing to me--my pretty
fair-haired mother. Even as I sat before my easel I could see her, as
she sat at the foot of my bed, with the sunshine streaming upon her
through the half-darkened window, and making her look, to my boyish
imagination, like a beautiful angel. And I could hear her voice still;
and the sweet tones in which she sang that very song to me, 'Home, sweet
home, there's no place like home.'

I remembered one night especially, in which she knelt by my bed and
prayed that she might meet her boy in the bright city, the sweet home
above the sky which was the best and brightest home of all. I wonder
what she would think of me now, I said to myself, and whether she ever
will see me there. I very much doubt it; it seems to me that I am a long
way off from Home, Sweet Home now.

My mother had died soon after that illness of mine, and I knew that she
had gone to live in that beautiful home of which she had so often spoken
to me. And I had been left behind, and my aunt, who had brought me up,
had cared for none of these things, and I had learnt to look at the
world and at life from her worldly standpoint, and had forgotten to seek
first the Kingdom of God. Oh! if my mother only knew, my pretty,
beautiful mother, I said to myself that day. And then there came the
thought, perhaps she _does_ know, and the thought made me very
uncomfortable. I wished, more than ever, that that cracked old
instrument, whatever it was, would stop.

But, in spite of all my wishes, the strange sound went on, and again and
again I had to listen to 'Home, Sweet Home,' and each time that it came
it set my memory going, and brought back to me the words and the looks
which I thought I had forgotten. And it set something else going
too--the still, small voice within, accusing me of forgetfulness, not so
much of my mother as of my mother's God.

I began to wish most heartily that I had chosen some other spot for my
picture. But it was working out so well that I felt it would be a great
mistake to change, and I hoped that the individual, man, woman, or
child, who had been making that horrible noise might find some other
employment to-morrow, and might leave me in peace.

The next day my wishes were fulfilled, for I was not disturbed, and very
little happened except that my picture made progress. Then came two wet
days, on which I had to paint in my little chamber, and did not get back
to my seat under the wall.

I saw a good deal of Duncan during those wet