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Kit and Kitty

[55] “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!” <hr class="chap" /></div> <h2>CHAPTER XI. THE FINE ARTS.</h2> 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[56] 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[57] 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,[58] 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 conductor, for ships of the Navy, that are to have iron all over and under them, and therefore want protecting. He had a letter from the Admiralty this morning.” “Oh 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[59] 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[60] 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.” <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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