His two hearers were entranced, for the creature sang with an inspiration good singers dare not indulge.
He concluded by informing Christie that the ivy was symbolical of her, and the oak prefigured Charles Gatty, Esq.
He might have inverted the simile with more truth.
In short, he never said a word to Christie about parting with her, but several about being buried in the same grave with her, sixty years hence, for which the spot he selected was Westminster Abbey.
And away he went, leaving golden opinions behind him.
The next day Christie was so affected with his conduct, coming as it did after an apparent coolness, that she conquered her bashfulness and called on the “vile count,” and with some blushes and hesitation inquired, “Whether a painter lad was a fit subject of charity.”
“Why not?” said his lordship.
She told him Gatty's case, and he instantly promised to see that artist's pictures, particularly an “awfu' bonny ane;” the hero of which she described as an English minister blessing the bairns with one hand, and giving orders to kill the puir Scoetch with the other.
“C'est e'gal,” said Christie in Scotch, “it's awfu' bonny.”
Gatty reached home late; his mother had retired to rest.