Oh! Christina!/Chapter 15
XV
THE MOONLIGHT CRUISE
"MY! what a lovely evenin'! The baker was oot o' sweet-mulk scones, so I had to tak' cookies instead. But they're jist new oot the oven, so ye better no' eat ony till efter the moonlight cruise, auntie."
Christina laid her purchase on the counter, and again remarked on the loveliness of the evening.
"I hope it is not going to rain," Miss Purvis returned. "Dear me! These cookies are quite warm! They would be delicious toasted and buttered"
"Efter the moonlight cruise," said Christina firmly.
"Really, Christina!" protested the spinster, who doted on hot buttered cookies.
"It's for yer ain guid, auntie. Ye needna flee up as if I had bit yer nose off."
"What a horrible expression to use! I shall certainly not allow you to tell me what I should, or should not, eat. For the last three days you have been most rude, watching every bite I put in my mouth. What do you mean by it?" Miss Purvis spoke indignantly.
Christina regarded her more with sorrow than anger. "Eat yer cookies," she said at last, in a tone of utter despair, "eat yer cookies! But remember—remember I warned ye!" She turned and went slowly towards the living-room,
"Christina!"
"I hear ye."
"Come back here!"
Christina came slowly back.
Miss Purvis put on her glasses, and they slipped off and landed on the floor.
"I'll get them for ye," said Christina briskly, coming round the counter.
"No, thank you," said Miss Purvis haughtily. She stooped, recovered her glasses, rose, and bumped her head against the edge of the counter.
"Did ye hurt yersel', auntie?"
"Certainly not!" said Miss Purvis, her eyes full of tears. She turned her back on her niece.
"Are ye offendit?" Christina asked anxiously.
Miss Purvis produced her handkerchief and pretended to blow her nose.
"Ye've hurt yersel'!" cried Christina, with concern in her voice. "Here, auntie, till I feel if ye've raised a lump. It was a queer dunt ye gi'ed yer heid. Was it yer broo? Wull I get ye a bit butter?"
"I wish you would go away!"
"Och, auntie!"
"Go away this minute!"
At this point a customer entered the shop.
Christina sighed and retired, taking the bag of cookies with her.
"Thank heaven, the wound isna mortal," she said to herself, quoting from a recent novelette. "I didna mean to offend her—I'll mak' the tea, an' that'll maybe cheer her up."
Twenty minutes later a delicious odour stole into the shop.
"Christina! what are you doing?" cried the spinster, after a long, luxurious sniff.
"Tea's ready, auntie."
"Tea?"
"Ay! T-E-A, tea!"
Miss Purvis, trying to frown, entered the living-room.
"Christina! What is this?"
"These," replied Christina, bringing from the oven a covered dish, "these is cookies!"
"Are cookies, my dear."
"They'll soon be was cookies," remarked Christina, with a happy giggle. "Sit doon, auntie! Dinna be bashfu'! Enjey yersel' while ye're young! 'A chieftain, to the Highlands hound, cries, Boatman, do not tarry! an' I'll give thee a'—Tak' care an' no' burn yersel'. They're pipin' hot, auntie—'a silver pound to row us o'er the ferry!' I can say it fine—eh, auntie?"
"You're an extraordinary girl, Christina," said Miss Purvis, laughing in spite of herself. "Am I really to be permitted to eat a cookie?"
"If ye behave yersel', ye'll maybe get twa! My! it's a lovely evenin' for a moonlight cruise! I never seen the sea sae calm."
"That is delightful," remarked Miss Purvis, raising a cookie to her mouth.
"Haud on, auntie! Ye forgot to ask a blessin'."
"So I did, my dear. But, really, you confuse me so."
Miss Purvis said grace, and the meal proceeded, Christina enlivening it with snatches from "Lord Ullin's Daughter," till her aunt devoutly wished, in secret, that the poem had never been penned.
"Hooch, ay! It's a champion pome!" the girl observed when the hot plate was empty. "It's a bit sad, but I suppose it's better to ha'e loved an' lost than never to ha'e loved at all. An' if we get droondit at the moonlight cruise, it'll be nice to think we ett the cookies, an' didna leave them to wur ancestors. Is it no' time we was gettin' dressed, auntie? I see ye've done yer hair in advance, so it'll no' tak' ye long to tosh yersel' up. Come on, an' we'll wash the dishes, an' then I'll mind the shope till ye perform yer toilet. Hoo's yer nut?"
"My nut?"
"I meant to say yer heid, auntie."
"Oh! Christina, Christina! will you never"
"Aw, dinna be vexed, auntie," said Christina apologetically. "I'll learn the richt words some day. This is the nicht o' the moonlight cruise! What price a life on the ocean wave? Come on, auntie. I'll wash, an' you'll dry. Pass the plates. Oh, mercy! there a customer! Haste ye, auntie, an' dinna gossip—for less nor a shillin'. I'll manage the dishes masel'. 'One lovely arm was streetched for aid, an' one was round her lover' Oh, mercy! I've chipped it!"
Thanks to Christina they were on the pier about half-an-hour too early.
"Never heed. It's a lovely evenin'," she remarked cheerfully. "I wonder at ye bringin' yer waterproof an' bumberstick, auntie!"
"You ought to have brought your own waterproof when I told you, Christina. Look at the clouds."
"That's heat."
"Heat!" cried Miss Purvis, with a little shiver.
"Are ye cauld, auntie? Come on, an' I'll race ye up the pier an' back! Are ye on?"
"Certainly not!"
"Weel, what wud ye like to dae to pass the time? Wud ye like me to recite 'Lord Ullin's Daughter'—eh?"
"Ye—es," said the spinster, making her choice of two evils.
So Christina reeled off the poem—with, it must be confessed, more fluency than feeling.
"You have certainly got it by heart," her aunt observed, smiling faintly.
"What price an encore?" asked Christina, looking gratified.
"I do wish you would not use that stupid expression, my dear. It irritates me."
"Does it? Weel, I'll no' say it again. I—I hope ye're feelin' a' richt, auntie."
"I never felt better; but I do find it chilly."
"Jist you thole till ye get on the boat, an' then ye'll soon be warm. I hear there's gaun to be dancin' to the music on board. I'll get the postman—he's gaun the cruise—to gi'e ye a polka. What price a—I mean to say"
"Christina!" exclaimed the horrified Miss Purvis, "you promised me you would behave, if I took you this cruise. If you are going to affront me"
Christina squeezed her aunt's arm. "I was jist jokin', auntie. I ken fine ye're no' a dancer. I'll no' affront ye."
A goodly number of people were waiting on the pier, when at last the Marmion, already well laden, came alongside.
"My! what a crood! I doot we'll ha'e to sit on wur thumbs," said Christina. "Haud on to me, an' I'll help ye to win through, auntie."
She espied a single vacant seat near the band, dragged her aunt to it, and pushed her upon it with a laugh of triumph.
"It's lucky for you ye've got me," she said.
"Thank you, Christina," said Miss Purvis, panting. "But where are you going to sit?"
"Aw, I'll jist ha'e a bit stroll in the meantime. So-long! See an' enjey yersel'."
"Christina, you must not leave me!"
"Are ye feelin' bad already, auntie?"
"You must stay beside me, and behave."
Christina looked rebellious. She wanted very much to rove about the deck among the throng which, she hopefully suspected, consisted largely of lovers. The band was playing for all it was worth—or, at any rate, for all it hoped to be worth by the end of the voyage—and every moment the music made her feel more reckless and restless. She gazed about her in the hope of discovering a friend, but all the Kilmabeg girls on board were her seniors by years. There was no one for whose company she might excusably leave her aunt's.
"Oh, I wish auntie had a mash," she sighed to herself. "I wish Baldyin was here."
"You may sit on my knee for a little, my dear," Miss Purvis said kindly.
Christina quivered, but pretended not to hear.
But just then—oh, joy!—the Kilmabeg baker's eldest daughter came up and spoke to Miss Purvis.
Christina hesitated, and was lost—in the crowd. For an hour she forgot everything in her quest for romance, and traversed the deck from bow to stern, from stern to bow, peering through the gathering darkness at all persons who happened to be sitting or standing in pairs. So anxiously did she peer, that at last an elderly gentleman, whom she had passed several times, stopped her and inquired in fatherly tones if she had lost her friends. Christina was so annoyed that she nearly made a rude reply, but restrained herself in time, and with a toss of her head and a muttered negative, left the elderly gentleman to "mind his ain business," as she expressed it to herself.
The moon, which had hitherto been obscured, now shone through the clouds, and Christina caught sight of a young man and a young woman seated very close together in the lee of the funnel, the former talking with the most intense earnestness.
Her heart leapt. "A proposal!" she murmured, and, quite unable to resist the temptation, she edged gradually towards the pair. All things, as far as she had gathered from her reading, were now in keeping with a proposal—the moonlight, the calm sea, the music. It took her fully ten minutes to venture near enough to hear the "passionate vowels" which she imagined to be pouring from the lips of the "adorin' swine."
"Yes," the young man was saying, "after a hard day's golf, a good, juicy steak, with chips and a bottle of stout, is hard to beat!"
And as Christina stood gazing in dazed and horror-stricken amazement at the speaker she felt her arm gripped gently.
"Christina! where have you been all this time? I've been searching everywhere for you."
Christina started violently.
"Hooch, ay!" she said, recovering herself, and allowing herself to be led away, while she accepted her aunt's mild lecture without uttering a word.
"Now, my dear," said Miss Purvis, after a pause, "I don't want to spoil your pleasure, but I think you might stay beside me for the rest of the cruise, and"
"Are ye feelin' bad, auntie? "
"I never felt better," said Miss Purvis with pride and satisfaction. "I believe I could get to like a sea-faring life in time. And d'you know what Miss Brown was telling me?" Miss Brown was the baker's eldest daughter. "Guess what she told me, Christina!"
Christina looked blank. "What?" she inquired.
"Oh, you must try to guess," said Miss Purvis, all smiles. "It's a great event."
"Oh, I ken," returned the girl. A cookie burst an' killed twa currants!"
"Christina!"
"Weel, what was the event aboot Miss Broon?"
Miss Purvis lowered her voice to a whisper.
"Miss Brown is engaged to be married! Her fiancé"
"Her what?"
"Her betrothed, then, is on board—such a nice young fellow, so gentlemanly, so"
"Ye're no' coddin' me, auntie?"
"My dear child!"
"Weel, whaur are they—if it's true!"
"They have seats just beside where I was sitting, and they are keeping my seat for me. Come, Christina."
Christina went with her aunt, and for the remainder of the cruise her cup of bliss ran over. In happy silence she sat on three inches of seat, watching stealthily the really and truly engaged couple. Her eyes observed every hand-squeeze; her ears heard every murmured "dear"; her mind imagined romantic incidents of the wooing which had had such a delightful conclusion. It was not until the very end—when the Marmion was once more at Kilmabeg pier—that her young heart suffered a pang of sadness.
If only her aunt would look as happy as Miss Brown! If only her aunt were engaged, too!
All the way home Christina felt that she would do anything to please and brighten and cheer her aunt.
"Dear auntie," she suddenly exclaimed, when, a little later, she observed Miss Purvis gazing rather dejectedly, as she thought, at the kettle which was slow in boiling, "dear auntie, wull I recite ye 'Lord Ullin's Daughter'?"
And Miss Purvis rubbed her sleepy eyes, checked a groan, smiled vaguely, and said very kindly—
"Yes, if you please, my dear."