Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex. Blackmore Richard Doddridge
can scarcely tell a pear from an apple go about the country, spouting and writing by the yard, concerning of our ignorance. Let them try it, is all I say, let them try it, if they are fools enough. Why bless my heart, there’s a fellow preaching now about sorting of apples, as if we had not done it before he sucked his coral! But I won’t go on maundering – time will show. Glad to see you, sir, at any time, and if I should happen to be about the grounds, my nephew Kit will see to everything you want. What time shall we see you to-morrow, sir?”
We were walking to the gate by this time, and Captain Fairthorn pulled out his watch. I observed that he had a true sailor’s walk, and a sailor’s manner of gazing round, and the swing of his arms was nautical.
“What a time I have kept you!” he exclaimed with simple wonder; “and I have forgotten altogether my proper business. I was to have tried some special means, for recovering the dog we were speaking of. Unless he is heard of to-night, I shall have little time to spare to-morrow. I am bound to do all I can for my good hostess. But to think that a dog, and a dog of no benevolence – according to my daughter – should stand in the way of this most interesting matter! However, I will do my best all the morning, and try to be with you by eleven o’clock. If I cannot come then, you will know what the cause is. But even for the best of dogs, I must not drop the subject. Now I thank you most heartily. Good-night!”
“What a wonderful man!” was my Uncle’s reflection; “to know all about trees, and thunderstorms, and dogs, and Covent Garden! And yet to let a woman twist him round her thumb, and tread on his child, and turn his pockets inside out! Come along, Kit, I am pretty nigh starved.”
And this wonderful man added yet another crown to his glory that very same night, as I heard. For to him, and his wisdom, was set down the credit of a joyful and extraordinary event.
A young man, slouching with a guilty conscience and a bag on his back, might have been seen – if his bad luck had prevailed – approaching a fine old mansion craftily, when the shadows stole over the moon, if there was one. Then an accurate observer might have noticed a quadruped of somewhat downcast mien issuing with much hesitation from a sack, and apparently reluctant to quit his guardian, who had evidently won his faithful heart. But receiving stern orders to make himself scarce, he might next be seen gliding to a gloomy door, uplifting wistfully one ancient paw scraping at the paint where it had been scraped before, and then throwing his head back, and venting his long-pent emotions in a howl of inexpressible sadness. The door was opened, the guardian vanished with suspicious promptitude, lights were seen glancing in a long range of windows, an outbreak of feminine voices moved the air, and after a shrill and unnatural laugh, came a sound as of hugging, and a cry of – “Run, for your life, for his liver, Jane!”
CHAPTER XI.
THE FINE ARTS
When the butter that truly is butterine, and the “Cheddar” of the Great Republic, are gracefully returned to our beloved grocer, with a feeble prayer for amendment, what does he say? Why, the very same thing that he said upon the last occasion – “Indeed! all our customers like it extremely; it is the very thing we have had most praise for; and this is the very first complaint.”
In like manner I received for answer (when I fain would have sent back to that storekeeper Love a few of the sensations I had to pay for) that everybody praised them, and considered them ennobling, and was only eager once again to revel in their freshness. And to tell the truth, when my own time came for looking calmly back at them, I became one of the larger public, and would have bought them back at any price, as an old man regards his first caning.
However I did not know that now, and could not stop to analyze my own feelings, which might for the moment perhaps be described as deep longings for a height never heard of. All the every-day cares, and hide-bound pothers of the people round me, were as paltry pebbles below my feet; and I longed to be alone, to think of one other presence, and only one.
Uncle Corny, in his downright fashion, called me as mad as a March hare; but I was simply sorry for him, and kept out of his way, and tried to work. Tabby Tapscott became a plague, by poking common jokes at me; and the family men on the premises seemed to have a grin among themselves, when my back was turned. The only man I could bear to work with, was the long one we called “Selsey Bill,” because he came from that part of Sussex, and resembled that endless projection. He was said to have seventeen lawful children – enough to keep any man silent. Moreover he was beyond all doubt the ugliest man in the parish; which may have added to my comfort in his mute society, as a proof of the facility of wedlock. The sharp click of his iron heel on the treddle of his spade, the gentle sigh that came sometimes, as he thought of how little he would find for supper, and the slow turn of his distorted eyes as he looked about for the wheelbarrow – all these by some deep law of nature soothed my dreamy discontent.
But what was there fairly to grumble at? If I chose to cast my eyes above me, and set my affections out of reach, reason could not be expected to undo unreason. And hitherto, what luck had led me, what good fortune fed me with the snatches of warm rapture! Even my own wickedness had prospered, and never been found out. Surely the fates were on my side, and the powers of the air encouraged me.
What a lovely morning it was now, for the fairest of beings to walk abroad, and for me to be walking in the same direction! Although the earth was sodden still, and the trees unripe with summer drip, and the autumnal roses hung their sprays with leathery balls, instead of bloom; yet the air was fresh, and the sky bright blue, and the grass as green as in the May month; and many a plant, that is spent and withered after a brilliant season, was opening its raiment to tempt the sun, and budding into gems for him to polish. The spring, that had forgotten tryst with earth this year, and been weeping for it ever since, was come at last, if only for one tender glance through the russet locks of autumn. Why should not man, who suffers with the distresses of the air and earth, take heart again, and be cheerful with them; ay, and enjoy his best condition – that of loving, and being loved?
There was enough to tempt the gloomiest, and most timid mortal, to make his venture towards such bliss, when Kitty Fairthorn, blushing softly, and glancing as brightly as the sunshine twinkles through a bower of wild rose, came along to me alone, where I stood looking out for her father. Although I had been thinking bravely all the things set down above, not one of them kept faith, or helped me to the courage of their reasoning. Instead of that, my heart fell low, and my eyes (which had been full of hope) would scarcely dare to render to it the picture of which it held so many, yet never could manage to hold enough. She saw my plight, and was sorry for it, and frightened perhaps both of that and herself.
“It is so unlucky,” she said, without looking any more than good manners demanded at me; “last night I began to think that all was going to be quite nice again; for that very peculiar dog, that my aunt is so strongly attached to, just came back; as if he had only gone for a little airing on his own account, and so as to have all the road to himself. He was as fat as ever, but oh so gentle! And his reputation is not quite that. Perhaps you have heard of him. He seems to be well known.”
“I think I have heard of him. Why, of course it must be the dog that was mentioned in the hand-bills! We had two of them upon our wall. Mrs. Marker was speaking of him, when you passed on Thursday, only I could not attend to her.”
“Then you ought to have done so,” she replied, as if without any idea of my inner thought; “for there has been the greatest excitement about it. But I suppose, inside these walls, and among these trees and lovely flowers, you scarcely know what excitement is.”
“Don’t I, then? Oh, I wish I didn’t!” I replied with a deeply sad look at her; “it is you, who are so much above all this, who can have no idea what real – real – a sort of despair, I mean, is like. But I beg your pardon; you mustn’t notice me.”
“How can I help being sorry for you?” she asked very softly, when our eyes had met. “You have been so good to me, and saved my life. But of course I have no right to ask what it is. And I know that the crops are always failing. And now you have a dear little tree quite dead. My father has sent me, to try to make a careful drawing of it, because it was struck by some extraordinary lightning. And the worst of it is, that he has been called away, and can hardly be back till the evening. He has invented a new