Kit and Kitty. R. D. Blackmore
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I smiled a little at this criterion of a trysting-place, and then did my utmost to fix in mind the bearings of this strange neighbourhood. Although I knew the busy parts of London well enough, of the vast spread of out-skirts I knew little, except the ups and downs of the great roads through them, and here and there a long look-out from the top of Notting Hill, or any other little eminence. Even so I had only lost my eyes in a mighty maze of things to come, and felt a deep wonder of pity for the builders, who were running up houses they could never fill. The part I was now exploring lay between the two great western roads, and was therefore to me an unknown land. But I felt pretty sure that the house now before me had been quite lately a mere country mansion, with grounds not overlooked, and even meadows of its own, where cows might find it needful to low to one another, and a horse might go a long way to find a gate to scratch against.
Even now there was a cattle-pond (the dregs of better days) near the gate that led up from the brickfields; and half a dozen ancient Scotch firs leaned in a whispering attitude towards one another; perhaps they alone were left of a goodly group, trembling at every axe that passed. The house itself was long, low, and red, and full of little windows, upon whose sills a straggling ilex leaned its elbows here and there, and sparrows held a lively chivvy. There was not a flower in the beds in front, and the box-edging of the walks was as high and broad as a wheel-barrow. Two large cedars, one at either corner of the sodden grass-plot, looked like mighty pencils placed to mark the extent of the building.
Descrying no one (except an ancient dog of mighty stature, and of some race unknown to me, who came up in a friendly manner) I summoned all my courage, with good manners at the back of it, and pulled a great bell-handle hanging, like a butcher’s steelyard, between two mossy piers of stone. There was no sound of any bell inside, and I was counting the time for another pull, when the door was opened some few inches, and sharp black eyes peered out at me.
“Subscription Bible? No, thank you, young man. Cook was put into County-court last time.”
I did not know what she meant, until I saw that she was glancing at the poor portfolio, of my own make, which held my unpretentious drawing. “I am not come for any subscription,” I said, drawing back from the door, as she seemed to suspect that I would try to push it open. “I have the pleasure of knowing Captain Fairthorn, and I wish to see him.”
“Don’t think you can,” she answered sharply; “but if you will tell me what your business is, I will ask the Mistress about it. You may come, and wait here, while I go to her. Scrape your boots first, and don’t bring in any clay.”
This did not sound very gracious; but I obeyed her orders with my best smile, and producing two very fine pears, laid them on the black marble chimney-piece of the hall. Her sallow face almost relaxed to a smile.
“Young man from the country? Well, take a chair a minute, while I go and ask for orders about you.” With these words she hastened up an old oak staircase, and left me at leisure to look about.
The hall was a large but not lofty chamber, panelled with some dark wood, and hung with several grimy paintings. Two doors at either end led from it, as well as the main staircase in the middle, and a narrow stone passage at one corner. The fireplace was large, but looked as if it had more to do with frost than fire; and the day being chilly and very damp, with an east wind crawling along the ground, I began to shiver, for my feet were wet from the wilderness of clay I had waded through. But presently the sound of loud voices caught my ear, and filled me with hot interest.
One of the doors at the further end was not quite closed, and the room beyond resounded with some contention. “What a fool you are to make such a fuss!” one feminine voice was exclaiming—“Oh, don’t reason with her,” cried another, “the poor stupe isn’t worth it. The thing is settled, and so what is the use of talking? How glad I shall be to see the last of her wicked temper and perpetual sulks. And I am sure you will be the same, Jerry. Nothing surprises me so much as Mamma’s wonderful patience with her. Why, she hasn’t boxed her ears since Saturday!”
“It isn’t only that,” replied the first; “but, Frizzy, consider the indulgences she has had. A candle to go to bed with, almost every night, and a sardine, positively one of our sardines, for her dinner, the day before yesterday. Why, she’ll want to be dining with us, the next thing! The more she is petted, the worse she gets. Now don’t you aspire to dine with us, you dear, you darling, don’t you now?”
“I am sure I never do,” replied a gentle voice, silvery even now, though quivering with tears; “I would rather have bread and water by myself in peace, than be scolded, and sneered at, and grudged every mouthful. Oh, what have I done to deserve it all?”
“I told you what would come of reasoning with her,” said the one who had been called “Frizzy”—probably Miss Euphrasia Bulwrag; “it simply makes her outrageous, Jerry. Ever since she came back from Sunbury, there has simply been no living with her. And she looks upon us as her enemies, because we are resolved that she shall do what is best for her. Lady Hotchpot—what can sound better? And then she can eat and drink all day long, which seems to be all she cares for.”
“That’s a little mistake of yours,” answered Miss Jerry, or Geraldine; “I know her tricks even better than you do. She cares for something, or somebody, some clodhopper, or chawbacon, down in that delightful village. Why, you can’t say ‘Sunbury,’ in the most innocent manner, without her blushing furiously. But she’s so cunning—I can’t get out of her who the beloved chawbacon is. Come now, Kitty, make a clean breast of it. I believe it’s the fellow that bets down there, and lives by having families of horses. Sir Cumberleigh told me all about him, and had a rare laugh; you should have seen him laugh, when I said that our Kitty was smitten. Well, I hoped she had a little more principle than that. And you’d think that butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth!”
“Butter never gets a chance”—I heard my darling say, and knew by her voice that the sweetest temper in the world was roused at last—“your mother never lets it go into my mouth; while you have it thicker than your bread almost. But I’ll thank you to enjoy among yourselves, or with any old rake you may fawn upon, your low and most ignorant gossip about me. You had better not strike me. Your mother may. But I will not take it from either of you; nor from both together.”
I could scarcely contain myself, I assure you; and if the young tyrants had fallen upon her, I must have got into a nice position—in the old, but not in the new sense of “nice”—that of bodily conflict with women. Luckily, however, these were cowards, as behoved such creatures; and I verily believe that my angel (if driven—as no angel should be—into a free fight) would have made a bad record of both of them.
I was hovering, as it were, upon my legs, burning to dash into the room, yet shuddering at the strange intrusion, when Miss Fairthorn came out very quietly, and holding her handkerchief to her streaming eyes. The door was banged behind her, as if by a kick, and a loud contemptuous laugh came through it. What I did is a great deal more than I can tell; for I must have been carried far beyond myself, by pity, indignation, and ardent love.
“Oh, don’t!” said Kitty, as I stood before her, almost before she could have used her eyes, being overcome with weeping; but the glance she gave me had told the thing that I cared for most in earth or heaven. And the strangest point was that we felt no surprise at being together in this wondrous way. To me it seemed right that she should fall into my arms; and to her it seemed natural that I should drop from heaven. “Oh, don’t!” said Kitty, but she let me do it.
I kissed away her tears, and I cannot tell you whether they gave me more bliss or pain; I stroked her softly nestling hair, as if it all belonged to me; and I played with her pretty fingers, putting them one by one between my great things, to make the thrilling process last. Then I looked once more into her lovely eyes—the wells of all my life-springs now—and lo, their tears were flown; and hope, and woman’s faith, and heaven’s own love, were beaming from their lustrous depth, as the light that proves the jewel true!
“Darling of my life,” was all I said; and she only answered—
“Yes, dear.”
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