Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex. Blackmore Richard Doddridge
dear, what a pity! What a sad loss!” I replied. “I am afraid it will take us so much longer, without having him here to direct us. And I doubt if my Uncle Cornelius will be able to be with us, half the time.”
“Oh that is just what I was to say!” her tone was demure, but her glance quite bright; “on no account am I to interfere with the valuable time of Mr. Orchardson. Indeed I shall not trouble any one. If I may only be shown the poor tree, and then be allowed to fetch a chair, or a stool, or even a hassock, and then be told where to find some clear water, and perhaps be reminded when the time is one o’clock, I am sure I shall do beautifully.”
“You are certain to do beautifully; there is no other way that you could do. No one shall be allowed to disturb you; I should like to see any one dare to come near you except – except – ”
“Except Mrs. Tapscott. You see I have heard of her. And it is so kind of you to think of her. Then I shall be quite happy.”
“Mrs Tapscott indeed! No, except me myself. I shall lock that chattering woman in the back kitchen, or how could you ever do a stroke? I am sure it will take you a very long time. There are three other trees that you ought to draw, if you wish to show exactly what the lightning did. I hardly see how you can finish to-day. If you leave off at one o’clock, it will be utterly impossible. And my Uncle Cornelius will be in such a rage, if you think of going back without anything to eat.”
“How very kind everybody is down here! It is the very nicest place I ever have been in. It will be so miserable to go away. I am not at all accustomed to such kindness.” Her lovely eyes glistened as she began to speak, and a tear was in each of them as she turned away. I felt as if I could have cried myself, to see such an innocent angel so sad. But I durst not ask any questions, and was bound to go on as if I knew nothing.
“What a little drawing-block you have!” I said; “you ought to have one at least twice that size. Do let me lend you one. I have three or four; and you can choose which you like of them. And my pencils too, and my colour-box. There are none to be had in the village. If you will rest a moment in this little harbour, I will get them all, and a chair for you.”
It did not take me long to let Tabby Tapscott know, that if she dared even to look out of the window, she would mourn for it all the rest of her life; moreover that she must not let anybody know in what direction I was gone, even if his Grace of C. G. himself came down, to grant us the best stall he had for ever. Tabby winked with both eyes, and inquired if I took her for a “vule, or a zany, or a coochey hosebird,” and said she would have “zummut good for nummatin,” by one o’clock. And as I hurried back to the bower, there came almost into my very hand the loveliest Souvenir d’un Ami rose that ever lifted glossy pink, to show the richer glow within. This rose I cut with the tender touch which a gardener uses boldly, and laid it on my drawing-block, so that each exquisite tinge and fringe and curve of radiant leaflet, as well as the swanlike bend of stalk and soft retirement of sepal, led up to the crowning beauty of the bloom above them.
“I never saw anything to equal that,” said one who might outvie the whole; “who can have taught you, Mr. Kit, such knowledge of what is beautiful?”
She had called me by my village-name; and more than that, she had let me know that she looked upon me as a rustic. I saw my advantage, and was deeply hurt, that she might make it up again.
“You are right,” I answered, turning back, as if in sad abasement; “Miss Fairthorn, you are right indeed in supposing that I know nothing. However, I am able to carry a chair, and to wait upon you humbly. Let us go to the tree; and at one o’clock, I will venture to come, and tell the time.”
“Oh, I never meant it at all like that! I could never have imagined you would take me up so. I seem to say the wrong thing always, as I am told every day at home. I hoped that it was not true; but now – now, I have given offence to you, you, who have been so good to me. I could never attempt to draw to-day. I will tell my father that I was rude to you, and he will send somebody else to do it.” I felt that this would have served me right; but I was not in love with justice.
“I implore you not to do that,” I said; “really that would be too hard upon me. Why should you wish to be hard upon me? I am trying to think what I have done to deserve it. You are worse than the ground lightning.”
“Then I suppose I killed your trees. I am not going now to be silly any more. Tell me what to do, to show that you have quite forgiven me. You know that I never meant to vex you.” She looked at me so sweetly, that I could only meet her eyes.
“I declare it will be one o’clock, before I have done a thing. What will my father say? And I must be so careful. I am sure that you could do it better, better much than I can. Will you do it, while I go and look for Mr. Orchardson? I like him very much, and his fruit is so delicious. No, you won’t relieve me? Well, shake hands, and be good friends again. May I have this lovely rose, to give my father something beautiful, when he comes back from London?”
I saw that she was talking fast, that my prudence might come back to me. She knew as well from my long gaze, that I loved her, and must always love her, as I to the bottom of my heart knew it. And she did not seem offended at me, only blushed, and trembled, just as if some important news were come (perhaps by telegraph), and she wondered while she opened it.
For me this was enough, and more almost than I could hope for – to let her keep this knowledge in her mind, and dwell upon it; until if happy angels came – as they gladly would – to visit her, the sweetest of them all might fan it, with his wings, into her heart.
“Halloa, Kit my lad!” cried Uncle Corny, when he came to dinner, and my darling was gone with her sketch half done, and I had only dared to hover near her. “Sweetheart been here, they tell me. What a leary chap you are! When I heard Cap’en was gone to Town, I thought it was all over. I’ve been wanting you up at packing-shed, for the last three hours. No more good work left in you. That’s what come of sweet hearting.”
“Uncle Corny, if you must be vulgar, because you have no proper sense of things, the least you can do is not to holloa, as if you were driving a truck of rags and bones.”
“Hoity, toity! Here’s a go! One would think there had been no courting done, since Adam and Eve, till your time. Too hot to hold – that’s my opinion. And as for rags and bones, young fellow, that’s just about what it will come to. The girl won’t have sixpence, by what I hear; though there’s lots of tin in the family. I know a deal more than you do about them. Don’t pop the question without my leave.”
What a way to put it!
CHAPTER XII.
AN EMPTY PILE
Although no token had passed between us, and no currency been set up, of that universal interchange, which my Uncle and Tabby termed “courting,” I felt a very large hope now, that the goods I had to offer, – quiet as they were, and solid, without any spangle – were on their way to be considered, and might be regarded kindly. For while I knew how poor I was, in all the more graceful attributes, and little gifted with showy powers of discourse, or the great world’s glitter, void moreover of that noble cash which covers every other fault, yet my self-respect and manhood told me that I was above contempt. Haughty maidens might, according to their lights, look down on me; let them do so, it would never hurt me; I desired no haughtiness. That which had taken my heart, and led it, with no loss to its own value, was sweetness, gentleness, loving-kindness, tender sense of woman’s nature, and the joy of finding strength in man. For though I am not the one to say it, I knew that I was no weakling, either in body, or in mind. Slow of wit I had always been, and capable only of enjoying the greater gifts of others; but as I plodded on through life, I found it more and more the truth, that this is the better part to have. I enjoy my laugh tenfold, because it is a thing I could never have made for myself.
But for a long time yet to come, there was not much laughter before me. One of the many griefs of love is, that it stops the pores of humour, and keeps a man clogged with earnestness. At the same time, he becomes the Guy, and butt for all the old jokes that can be discharged by clumsy fellows below contempt. None of these hit him, to any good purpose, because he is ever