Oh! Christina!/Chapter 13

UNTIE, what's a poti-on?"

It was nearly bed-time, and for the last hour Miss Purvis and her niece had been sewing in silence. Perhaps Miss Purvis had been drowsing, perhaps dreaming, over her seam; at all events she started at the question.

"What did you say, my dear?"

"I'm askin' ye, what's a poti-on?"

"I'm sure I never heard of such a thing, Christina," said Miss Purvis, looking blank. "Is it something you have been reading about?"

"Uh-ha."

"Christina, I do wish you would not use that ugly word."

"'Mphm, then," said Christina.

"Can't you say yes?"

"Ay—I mean yes. But what's a poti-on?"

"Can you spell it?"

"P-O-T-I-O-N."

"Oh, you mean potion."

"I thocht it was poti-on," said Christina, somewhat annoyed. "Weel, what's a potion, as ye ca' it?"

"Suppose you look it up in the dictionary," Miss Purvis returned pleasantly.

"D'ye no' ken?"

"Oh yes; I know quite well what the word potion means, Christina; but it will help you to remember if you see the meaning in print."

"Oh, Jamaica!" muttered Christina, getting up and going to the bookshelf. "What's the use o' footerin' aboot a stupit auld dictionary? I say, auntie," she went on, with a twinkle in her eyes, "you tell me the meanin', an' I'll see if ye're correc'. Eh?"

Miss Purvis smilingly shook her head. "I have tried that way before, Christina, and you have always said you would take my word for it. Look it up, my dear."

Christina took down a little pocket dictionary and came back to her seat.

"This book's daft," she presently declared. "It says a potion's a draught or a liquid meddicine. Hoo can a thing that gi'es ye a cold be"

"A draught, in this case, is another name for a drink," explained the spinster. "So now you have learned two new words, which shows you the great advantage of referring to"

"An' can a potion be naethin' else but a drink an' a meddicine?"

"Not that I know of. Where did you read about it, Christina? "

"In the Sunday Companion," the girl replied, after some hesitation. "It was a magic potion," she continued slowly, without looking at her aunt. "A lass got it frae a—a sosserer to gi'e to a young man that wasna heedin' aboot her. She gi'ed it to him, an' it charmed him, an' afore she could say 'Jack Robinson' he was coortin' her like fun, an' their nuptails was celebrated in What's a nuptail, auntie?"

"I am surprised that the Sunday Companion should print such rubbish," said Miss Purvis.

"Maybe it was in anither paper. But"

"No matter. It is sheer nonsense, and I wish you would read something sensible, Christina. There are no such things as magic potions, or sorcerers, or"

"But there's sich things as nuptails, because I've seen it printit in the newspapers. What's a"

"Hush, Christina! It is bed-time."

"But"

"No! Put these foolish ideas out of your head and take off your boots."

"Hooch, ay!" sighed Christina resignedly. But she was not convinced by her aunt's denial of the existence of sorcery.

It was now the month of August, yet nothing had happened between Mr. Baldwin and Miss Purvis, though Mr. Baldwin on his last two calls had given Christina more cause for hope than ever he had done before. On both occasions he had lost the five o'clock steamer—purposely, she felt sure—and waited till the six o'clock one, which ran only in the summer. On his last call he had brought Miss Purvis a beautiful cake, covered all over with icing and pink and white sugar, and as he presented it he had grown quite red. But alas! Miss Purvis seemed to have grown colder and colder, and had received the cake without getting the least excited, and had even told Mr. Baldwin that it was foolish of him to have lost the five o'clock steamer when the later one was such a slow one.

Altogether Christina was feeling extremely dissatisfied, and was ardently wishing herself living in the days when magic potions, whatever they might have been, were obtainable—for ladies as well as for gentlemen.

It happened that the Thursday following the foregoing conversation was the monthly half-holiday for the shop-keepers of Kilmabeg and the neighbouring villages. Miss Purvis did not, as a rule, recognize such half-holidays, but on this occasion she closed the shop at two o'clock; and half-an-hour later she and Christina took a steamer to the little town across the firth. Miss Purvis, after several years of hesitation, had decided to buy herself a new "best" dress.

Her niece had rejoiced at the decision, but her rejoicings had been cut short by Miss Purvis, who informed her that on no account would she permit her to be present at the choosing of the dress.

"No, my dear; it is no use your asking. I shall never forget what I suffered when you helped me to buy a hat"

"But I knocked doon the price for ye, auntie."

"I could never enter that shop again. Say no more about it. You can amuse yourself looking at the other shops while I am engaged with the dressmaker."

And Christina pled in vain. She was not without comfort, however. At this time she was the possessor of a shilling, which she had earned by assisting the doctor's wife during a brief indisposition of the latter's maid.

On the steamer she announced her intention of "bursting".the said shilling that very afternoon.

"I'm on for a reg'lar jamboree," she added.

For three minutes Miss Purvis spoke seriously, first on the vulgarity of slang, then on the folly of extravagance.

"Hooch, ay!" said Christina. After a short pause she casually observed—

"It's a guid thing Baldyin's comin' the morn an' no' the day. It wud be a rare suck for him to come an' find the shop shut. Eh, auntie?"

"Really, Christina!" cried Miss Purvis, indignantly.

"He wud think ye had done a bunk."

"May I ask what you mean by a bunk, Christina?"

"A slope. My! but ye ken awfu' few words, auntie!"

Miss Purvis groaned and turned away.

"Are ye feelin' seeck, auntie?" Christina inquired in a sympathetic voice. "Try workin' yer mooth as if ye was eatin' meat. I read that that was guid for the sea-seeckness. Never heed what the folk think. Turn yer face to the watter, an' they'll no' see ye. Noo, try to imagine ye're eatin' something tough-like, an' chow it for a' ye're worth "

"Christina, if you say another word"

"Oh, mercy!" Christina exclaimed, jumping up. "Thonder a boy in the water!"

"Oh, dear!" Miss Purvis jumped up also, while several passengers stared in alarm. "Where, where?"

"Thonder—tied to thoun yacht," said Christina, with a calm smile. "I didna think ye was sae easy catched, auntie. I'll awa' to the neb o' the boat. See ye later. So-long!"

Miss Purvis collapsed. She was feeling just a little seedy, as she usually did on steamers.

Christina greatly enjoyed looking at the shops without supervision or restriction. She had made up her mind to purchase a gift for her aunt, whose birthday fell about a month later, yet though she saw many things suitable, she could not decide on any one of them.

Having inspected every likely window in the main street, she turned into a side street. But finding there no shops of the kind desired, she was about to retrace her steps, when she was arrested by the sight of a wig on a waxen scalp in a barber's little window.

"Oh, Jamaica! what a funny thing!" she said to herself, gazing at it. Presently her eyes began to wander about the window, the contents of which were deplorably stale and dusty. They looked as if they had not been touched for years, which was probably the case.

All at once Christina gave a little jump and drew in her breath. Then her gaze became glued to some object in the left-hand corner of the window. The colour rushed to her face and faded again. Could it—could it be true, after all?

Five minutes later, clutching her shilling, she entered the shop.

A gaunt elderly man, with fearsome black moustachios and a sad squint, bounced up from behind the counter. At the sight of him Christina could scarce keep from flight; yet she had expected to see a rather a terrifying person.

"Well, miss?" The voice was soft and polite—the voice of one who had known better days—but it made Christina shudder.

She moistened her lips and, in a tremulous whisper, said—

"I want a—a potion."

"A lotion, miss?"

"A potion."

"A lotion—for the hair? " He smiled dreadfully—so it seemed to Christina. Once more she all but fled.

"A potion," she whispered bravely. "What—what's the price o' yer—yer Spirit o' Love?"

The man looked puzzled, but now Christina was sure that he was pretending. He could not, or would not, look her in the face. He was trying her, doubtless.

"It's in the window," she said.

"Oh!" Again he smiled, but this time it was a smile of understanding. With fingers which, the girl fancied, trembled he unfastened the frosted glass door opening on the window. A moment later he was brushing a cobweb from a small bottle containing a yellowish liquid. A soiled and faded label of floral design was affixed to the bottle, and on it appeared, as in letters of fire, the words, "Spirit of Love."

"Spirit of Love!" murmured the barber, with one eye on the bottle and the other on Christina. "One shilling, miss."

A faint sigh escaped the girl, but only a faint one. It would take all her shilling, but it was worth it.

"Hoo much should a lady tak'?" she asked diffidently, pointing at the bottle.

"Oh, just a few drops, miss," the barber replied, becoming grave with an effort. "It is a very strong extract. Perhaps you would like to smell it." He withdrew the glass stopper and presented the bottle.

Christina smelt cautiously. "Is it jist scent?" she cried, looking doubtful.

"It is a most charming scent," he replied, with another dreadful but reassuring smile. "The very latest, prepared from a secret receipt."

"Oh! Would it—charm a lady?"

"Certainly! I have sold hundreds of bottles of 'Spirit of Love' to gentlemen for that very object, miss," he said, fondling the phial which he had had in stock for twelve long and weary years. "Charms them like magic!" he added.

"Like magic? "

"Like nothing else, miss."

"An' it wudna hurt her?"

The barber stared. "Hurt her? Certainly not!" he said at last. "It will only charm and refresh. A few drops on the handkerchief will be found wonderfully invigorating. Ah! now I think I see what you meant when you asked about its hurting! Do you wish the bottle for a sick friend? Just so! In that case a few drops on the pillow will prove a real charm."

Christina nearly dropped. It was too wonderful! A sick friend! How could this terrible man know that her aunt had been feeling sick on the steamer?

He must be a Sosserer!

Speechless, she laid her shilling on the counter. It seemed an age till the barber handed her the small parcel with a polite "Thank you, miss."

Clutching it, she fled from the dread presence.

So subdued and silent was she for the rest of the day that Miss Purvis became alarmed, and insisted on her taking some particularly nasty physic before retiring for the night.

It was two o'clock in the morning. A high wind was wailing round the humble dwelling. Christina, wide-awake, shivered.

She had intended to perform the magic spell at midnight, but her aunt had been very restless in her sleep. Now, at last, a steady, gentle snore told the girl that her opportunity had come.

Cautiously Christina drew from under her pillow the phial of "Spirit of Love." Carefully she withdrew the stopper, and, holding her finger on the orifice, prepared to let the drops fall on her aunt's pillow. Several times she hesitated, but at last her courage prevailed. Mr. Baldwin was coming on the morrow. Her aunt must be charmed.

She poised the bottle over the pillow, at a safe distance from the sleeper's head. She would let fall seven drops, which she had read somewhere was the perfect number. Now!

One! Two! Three! Four!—Oh!

The sudden squall of a cat rent the air.

When Christina recovered her wits the bottle was empty.

Miss Purvis started up.

"Oh, heavens! what is that abominable smell?"

Christina sobbed bitterly, yet thankfully. She was glad she had not killed her aunt. But she gave no explanations beyond exhibiting the empty bottle, which Miss Purvis, after lighting a candle, threw into the fireplace with the remark "Spirit of Fiddlesticks!" Whereupon Christina sobbed more bitterly than ever.

Miss Purvis in desperation opened the window, and the chill blast played briskly on the scent-saturated bed for the rest of that wretched, wretched night.

In the morning Miss Purvis had a splitting headache, induced by the reeking perfume, and a painfully stiff neck, caused by the draught from the window.

And Mr. Baldwin—a note informed Miss Purvis—had a wedding to attend in Glasgow and would not call for another week.

And Christina had a broken heart—almost.