Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex

He might have talked like this for an hour, without any effect of that sort on me; if he had not finished with a heavy sigh, in spite of all the solace of the scene. Then I knew that he referred to his own grief, which was a dark and bitter one. He had lost his wife, just before he came to us; and now it was said that his only child, a graceful girl of about fifteen, was pining away with some mysterious illness, and would take no food. And he, an old man of threescore and five, of feeble frame and requiring care, must finish his earthly course alone, poor, and forlorn, and with none to love him.

“I hope Miss Bessy is a little better,” I said very softly; for I felt rebuked in my health and strength, by a grief like this.

“No, I fear not. She fancies nothing. As I came back from visiting poor Nanny Page, I saw some fine mushrooms in the footpath field, and it struck me that possibly my child would like them; though they are not very nourishing or wholesome food. But if we could get her to eat anything – and I have a special style of cooking them. But it was nearly dark when I gathered them, and I scarcely know the true from the poisonous. I was going to ask Dr. Sippets, but I fear he would forbid them altogether. You could do me a great favour, if you would. Just to look these over for me.”

This I undertook with the greatest pleasure, and asked him to come to my cottage for the purpose, where we could procure a light. And I was pleased that he did not in any way attempt to “talk goody,” as our people call it, nor even refer to my lonely condition; though I knew by the softness of his manner that it was present to his mind. The reverend gentleman had collected his booty in too Catholic a spirit, mingling with the true Agaric some very fine “horse-mushrooms,” and even one or two poisonous toadstools. Having packed all the good ones in a tidy punnet, which looked more enticing than his handkerchief, I carried them for him to his own door, and obtained leave to call on the morrow, and ask whether the young lady had been tempted.

My Uncle Corny was one of that vast majority of good Britons, which can never forbear the most obvious joke, even when it is least attractive. The most fastidious people in the world could scarcely call him “vulgar,” – which used to be a favourite word with them – because he could let them call him what they liked, and be none the worse for it. They might just as well blame a dog for loving liver, or a cat for believing that heaven is milk, as fall foul of my Uncle Corny, because he ate the onions of very common jokes. He liked to make a laugh; and when he failed, he perceived that the fault was upon the other side.

“I thought of a capital thing,” he told me, “when I was half awake last night, for I never sleep now as I used to do. If you go on like this, you’ll have to answer to the parish for it. What right have you to change our parson’s name?”

I saw by the wag of his nose that he was inditing of some cumbrous joke; and I let him take his time about it.

“How slow you are! Can’t you see, Kit, his proper name is Golightly; and you are making him go heavily. Well, never mind. I can’t expect you to see anything just now. I suppose you never mean to laugh again.”

“Certainly not at such stuff as that. What am I doing to disturb him?”

“Why, you are getting into talks together, and heavy proceedings about probations, and trials, and furnaces of affliction, and all that sort of stuff, as I call it; instead of coming to have your pipe with me.”

“There has not been a word of the sort;” I answered, wondering how he could be so small. “Mr. Golightly leaves all that for the Methodists. He is a churchman. And not only that, but he is a man of true courage, and real faith in God. If he could only give me a hundredth part of what he has, how different I should be! And he never talks about it, but I know that it is in him. Without a single word, he has made me thoroughly ashamed of the way I go on. Look at him! A poor old man, who can scarcely climb a gate, or lift a chair, and who sees his one delight in this world pining and waning to the grave before him. Yet does he ever moan and groan, and turn his back on his fellow-creatures? Not he. He sets his face to work, with a smile that may be sad, but is at any rate a pleasant one; and he gives all his time to help poor people, who are not half so poor as he is. I call him a man; and I call myself a cur.”

“Come, come; that’s all nonsense, Kit. I am sure you have borne your trouble well; though you have been crusty now and then. And you can’t say that I have not made allowance wonderfully for you. And here you are ready to throw me over; because this man, whose duty it is, and who is paid for doing it, sets a finer example than I do! I don’t call that a Christian thing. Let him come and grow fruit, and have to sell it, and if he keeps his temper then, and pays all his hands on a Saturday night, and sets a better example than I do – ”

I burst out laughing. It was very rude; for my uncle was much in earnest. But I could not help it; and after staring at me, with a vacant countenance, he gave three great puffs of tobacco and smiled as if he was sorry for me.

“Well, take him another bunch of grapes,” he said with true magnanimity; “I am glad that the poor maid enjoys them. And they are come down now to fifteen pence.”

Thus was I taken, without deserving any such consolation, into a higher life than my own, and a very different tone of thought. The bitterness, and moody rancour, which had been encroaching on me, yielded to a softer vein of interest, and sympathy in sorrows better borne than mine. The lesson of patience was before me, told in silence and learned with love; and it went into me all the deeper, because my pores were open.

But in spite of all that, I saw no way to sudden magnanimity. It is not sensible to suppose that any man can forego his ways, and jump to sudden exaltation, just because he comes across people of higher views than his. Women seem to compass often these vast enlargements of the heart; but a man is of less spongy fibre, if he is fit to marry them. It had been admitted by Tabby Tapscott, even in her crossest moments, that I was a “man as any woman could look up to, if she chose.” And the very best of them must not be asked to do that to a man, who is like themselves. And so I continued pretty stiff outside, and resolved to have my rights, which is the only way to get them.

“Here comes Tony,” exclaimed my uncle, on the following Saturday night; “time for him to show something for his money. If there is anything I call unfair, it is to pay for a thing before you get it. He will prove to his own satisfaction that he has worked it out, of course. When you were at Ludred about Sam’s wedding, you should have fixed your aunt to something. Your fifty pounds is nearly gone; and she never gave you another penny. I don’t see why I should pay for it like this. And the French stuff is in the market already. What’s the good of being an Englishman?”

“And what’s the good of being an Englishwoman?” I answered, for I thought him too unjust, as he had not paid a sixpence yet. “Unless she is allowed to dress sometimes, and be told that she is twenty years younger than she is. Aunt Parslow looked fit to be a bridesmaid quite. And she will come down handsomely, when she has paid her bills. She looked at her cheque-book, and she said as much as that.”

“Then let her do it;” said my uncle shortly. “I suppose this spy-fellow will expect his supper. Eat he can, and no mistake. The smaller a man is, the more he holds. You had better run down to the butcher’s.”

Mr. Tonks might have heard him, but he made no sign, only coming up quietly with his tall hat on, and taking a chair which stood opposite to ours; for the weather being friendly, and the summer at its height, we were sitting out of doors, beneath the old oak tree. Then he nodded to us, put his hat upon the grass, and waited for our questions.

“Well, Tonks, what have you been up to all this time? You have sent us no letter, so I suppose you have done little?”

Thus spoke my uncle, looking at him rather sternly. I also looked at him very closely, and was surprised to find a certain strength of goodness in his face, which I had not observed, when I first saw him. His face was thin and narrow, and his cheeks drawn in, and his aquiline nose had had a twist to one side. But the forehead was high and broad, and the lips and chin full of vigour and strong resolution. And the quiet gray eyes expressed both keenness and resource.

“A thing of this kind takes a lot of time,” he said; “and if you gents are not satisfied, you had better say so. I take no man’s money, when he thinks it thrown away.”

“Hoity, toity, man, don’t be so hot,” my uncle replied, showing much more heat himself; “we have not said a word. We are waiting for you.”

“I have not done much. It was not to be expected. I have cleared the ground for further work. It depends upon you, whether I go on.”

“Yes, to be sure! Go on, go on. We give you your head, and we are as patient as Job. I suppose you have found out where that scoundrel is.”

“Yes. And I have found out something more than that. I have struck up an acquaintance with him, and he does not know me; though he ought, for he broke my arm last winter; though perhaps he never saw my face. But I wore moustaches and whiskers then, and a green shade through a little kick from a horse. I know of a gambling-club he goes to, and there I meet him every night. I have put him up to a trick or two; and we are to rehearse them at his rooms to-morrow night. He is very close; but I shall gradually worm him. But I must be supplied with cash, to do it.”

“We will try to arrange about that,” said my uncle; “and of course you can return it, and perhaps win some more. Gambling is a thing I detest with all my heart; and no one can ever win by it, in the end. If he did, it would do him no good. But still, it is right that the rogues who live by it should be robbed. If you pick up a pound or two there, all the better. I think you have done wonders, Tonks. But I suppose you have discovered nothing about – about the lady.”

“Not a single syllable yet,” he answered, looking at me, as he caught my expression; “but I believe I shall, if I have my time. What I have done is a great deal better than ‘shadowing’ the man, as they call it. I might do that for months, and be no wiser. But I am obliged to be very careful. So many people know me. I can never go near him where the racing people are. And I have had one very narrow shave already. But there is another thing you may be glad to know. Bulwrag is beginning to make up to a rich lady. He is not sweet upon her; but it seems that he must do it.”

“The thief!” exclaimed my uncle; “we must never allow that. The scamp would break her heart. I am determined to prevent it. I shall let her know my opinion of him. I know all the villainous lot too well. Don’t be excited, Tonks. I can’t stand that. Give me her name and address; and I will go with the van myself, if necessary. I should think myself a party to it, if I did not stop it. She will soon see what I am.”

“I was going to tell you, but now I had better not,” Tony Tonks answered with a sly dry smile; “what good could you do, Mr. Orchardson? The lady would only laugh at you, even if she deigned to see you.”

“Nobody ever laughs at me. And as for deigning to see me, – why, the Queen herself would do it, the way I should put it.”

“Well, you have a good opinion of yourself. But you must keep quiet in this matter, unless you want to spoil my little game. The lady is the Lady Clara Voucher, daughter of the Earl of Clerinhouse, a very great heiress, and not bad looking. What more he can want is a puzzle to me. But it goes against the grain with him.”

“He shall never have her; he may take his oath of that,” said my uncle, bringing down his hand upon his knee, as if he were the father of the peerage.

“Well, this is a curious affair,” thought I; “how can he be taking to anybody else, after having cast his eyes on Kitty?”

CHAPTER XLVIII.

THE DUCHESS

All these things compelled me to think about them, because they were so different from what might have been expected. When first I lost my wife, and knew that I had been robbed of her, I made up my mind for savage work, and nothing could be too wild for me. The greatest wrong that man can do to man had been done to me; for a stab to the bodily heart is better than the destruction of faith and love. But the care for my dear wife’s good name, (which would have been blasted, if ever it got abroad that she had eloped with the money), as well as many other tender thoughts, had kept me quiet, and conduced to stop me from any acts of violence. And this instinct of true love proved quite right; as all will confess who care to know the end of it.

Straitened as I was with my own cares, and sometimes buried in them, I could not help trying to lift if it were but the corner of the burden imposed by Heaven upon a man a thousandfold better and more noble. The only excuse I could make to myself, for the different way in which he bore his grief, was that he was bound to do it as a clergyman, and being so old, must be getting used to it. But I knew in my heart that this was paltry stuff; and that the true reason of the difference was, that he was a large man with faith in God; while I was a little one relying upon self. There was no way before me to cure that, for no man can set up his ladder on a cloud; still it did me good to know that he had found staple support, and was steadfast upon heaven.

Mr. Golightly was not only a Christian, but a gentleman. Far as I was below his rank in life, he never let me feel the difference, either by word, or turn of manner, or even by tone of silence. He never inquired into my affairs, though no indifference prevented it; and nothing was further from his mind than the thought that he was doing good to me. Being of a nature which requires something to love, I loved this man, and never could see anything to laugh at in him, as my Uncle Cornelius made believe to do.

I became restless if any day went by without my seeing him, and I could not sleep on my two chairs, however tired I might be, without the remembrance of his – “Good-night, God bless you, Kit” – which he always gave me, in a gentle voice, and with a look which was itself a blessing. And now I had been admitted to the acquaintance of his darling; whom he loved as I loved Kitty, but with a holier sense and fear. She was lying on a horsehair sofa, in his poorly furnished room; for he was poor, as a good man is nearly always somehow. And I never shall forget the look she gave me from her weary eyes, quite as if the depth of kindness were enhanced by its want of power. And she rose upon one wasted arm, and offered me a hand just like a white kid glove, that has been drawn off.

“You have been very good to father;” she looked at my sunburnt face, as if she would like to remember it somewhere else; “and what lovely grapes you bring me! See, how greedy I have been!”

It was as much as I could do to keep my eyes from being like grape-stalks; and I tried to drive my sorrow inwards, by thinking that all of it was wanted there. But it would not do, and I turned away.

“What she wants is outdoor air;” I said, as soon as we left the room, and her father asked me what I thought; and I said it more to hide my own distress, than from any hope at all. “Outdoor air without exercise, and with very gentle movement.”

“Sims, the flyman, is very good;” her father’s lips trembled as he spoke, and he tried to make a smile of it; “he knows that we cannot afford much carriage-hire, and he comes at half-price when he has nothing else to do. But since the other spring broke, she can hardly bear it. She fainted twice, the last time we went.”

“But the river, the water, the Thames!” I said, almost fearing to make a suggestion so stale, “what can be more easy than the gliding of a boat? Is that even too much for her?”

“Bessy has never tried it yet,” said the anxious father, pondering much; “when I was at Oxford I loved the river; but I have not found time for it for many years. And I fear it would be cold upon the water.”

“It is much more likely to be too hot;” I answered, with some wonder, at the clear unselfishness of this man, who loved the river, yet lived upon its banks, without ever taking boat, for fear of slighting duty; “the sun strikes very strong upon the river; but after four o’clock it is delightful. I know a boat that would exactly suit her. She can lie upon the cushions in the stern. The weather is beautifully calm and warm. Will you let me try it?”

He was loth to consent without leave from Dr. Sippets, which of course was right enough; but the doctor said it was the very thing he was going to recommend that very day; and as soon as the poor girl heard of it, she would scarcely hear of any other thing. We had an old boat of our own, but it was not nice enough for her; so I went as far as Shepperton for the one of which I had spoken to him. This was a very commodious affair, and the name painted on it was The Duchess, obliterating the old name Emmy Moggs; for a genuine duchess had been in it, while staying for her health at Walton. Phil Moggs was the owner, and he raised his price, as soon as he had painted out his good wife’s name. And he thought so much of this boat now – though described by rivals as the washing-tub – that he always insisted on going with it. However, he was not a bad sort of fellow, though belonging henceforth by his own account, to the higher aristocracy. The cheaper men called him “the Duke,” and he accepted the title without ill-will.

Regardless of expense, I hired boat and him, under private agreement that Mr. Golightly should pay him half a crown, and suppose that all. And we brought the young lady in a bath-chair to the bank, and shipped her without any difficulty. And it was worth a lot of money to behold her fair young face, delicate with dreams of heaven, taking the flush of the firmer air, and gradually kindling with the joys of earth. She looked at every tree we glided past, and every fair garden upon either bank, and every feathered bend of hill and hollow, as if they were coming to her in a dream, yet so that she could make friends of them. At first her dear father clasped her hand, as if she could glide more smoothly so; but soon she became more independent, and wanted both hands, to point out her delight. Then the tears of kind pleasure came into his eyes, and he turned away, and looked at the world for himself, and thanked God for this little touch of happiness.

“Shall we rest a minute beneath this willow?” he said, as the sun drew along the stream, and the myriad twinkles of bright air seemed to be dancing to the silver chord of waves; then we slid into the silence of a cool arcade, and I said, —

“It is high time for Moggs to have some beer.”

Mindful of this prime need of every British waterman, I had brought a little stone jar from my uncle’s tap; and thinking that the savour of this fine beverage might not be agreeable to our fair freight, I landed on the island, with a wink to “the Duke;” and he very kindly followed me. The Pastor knew well that his flock must be fed, and he extended his knowledge to the neighbouring parish.

There was lemonade and strawberries for the weaker vessels; and while they remained afloat, and entered into these, Moggs and I sat behind a bush, and considered what was good for us.

“I suppose you don’t often come Sunbury way;” I said, just to lend a little tongue to tooth-work; for I had bought some bread and a hunk of bacon.

“Nobs goes mostly up the river, Chertsey, and Laleham, and the Mead, and that likes,” Mr. Moggs replied, with his knife upon the bone. “Ain’t been your way, pretty nigh three months.”

“Ah, but you had a nice time then. Very fine ale at the Flower-pot, Moggs.”

“Well, so there he; but quite as good nigher home. And I likes my drop of beer, without no water in it. Here’s your good health, Mr. What’s your name.”

“Thank you, Moggs; and the same to you. But I don’t understand about water in your beer.”

“Well, did ever you see a young ’ooman cry enough to fill a bucket, let alone a boat? I pretty nigh wanted one of them tarpaulins. Just lost her Daddy, the old man said to me. But he told me not to speak of it; no more I did. But I found out arterwards all about it. Seems she come from Molesey, though I took her t’other side.”

“From Molesey? I know a good many of the people there. The only man who died there this summer, to my knowledge, was an old bachelor by the name of Powell. What was this young woman’s name?

“Watson, or Wilson, I won’t be certain which. Never mind; I dare say she’s all right by now. The more they takes on at first, the sooner they gets shut.”

“But you took her on our side of the river, as you said. Did you go to fetch her? What day was it? What was she like? Who sent you for her? Where did you land her? How came you – ”

“Look here, Mr. What’s your name. You hires my boat, and you hires me to row; but not to go on about other people’s business.”

“But it may be my own business, Philip Moggs. And you may get into desperate trouble, by refusing to tell me all you know of it.”

“Not a bit feared of that,” the old man answered; “I’ve a-knowed hundreds get into trouble with too much clacking, but never one the other way.”

He shut up his mouth, and looked like an old villain of a horse I had seen at Sam Henderson’s, who had pits above his eyes, and ears that stuck back like a gun-cock, and a nose that was as wiry as a twisted toasting-folk. This was a man who would whistle on his own nails to warm them, but not to warn another man from going down a weir-pool.

“Well,” I said, “never mind; I don’t suppose it matters” – for I was able to master my manners now, after three months of endurance; “only somebody has a bit of money upon something; and you might cut in for it, if you gave a hand. But I’ll be bound you know nothing about it, after all. You fellows, who are always on the water, dream all sorts of stuff, just as I did this afternoon.”

“Then, Mister, I’ll just keep my dreaming to myself. I did hear of something queer down your way. But least said, soonest mended. Time to be shoving off again.”

On the homeward row, I did my best to drive out of my mind all thought of this ancient mariner, and his story. And he feigned not to be thinking of it; though I caught his wrinkled eyelids dropping suddenly at the sudden glances which I cast upon him. He was watching me narrowly, when I looked away; and I thought it likely that he would land again when he had discharged us, and try to learn all about me in the village. For we at Sunbury knew but little of the Shepperton people at that time, looking on it rather as a goose-green sort of place, benighted, and rustic, and adverse to good manners. Shepperton, without equal ground, despised us, as a set of half-Cockneys, and truckling for the money of London, which they very nobly contemned, because they got so little of it. If anything exciting came to pass at Sunbury, these odd people shrugged their shoulders, and talked about Bow Street, and Newgate, and the like; as if they belonged to Middlesex, and we to London. However, there can be no doubt which is the finer village.

I was much dissatisfied with myself, when I came to think of it, for allowing as I did this boatman’s story so to dwell upon my mind, that even the fair invalid in the stern lost many little due attentions. But happily she fell fast asleep, being sweetly lulled by the soft fine air, and the dreamy melody of waters. Her long eyelashes lay flat in the delicate hollows of her clear white cheeks, where a faint tinge of rose began to steal, like the breath of a baby angel.

“How beautiful she looks!” I whispered to her father, as he gazed at her; and he answered – “Yes. How can I bear it? It is the beauty of a better world.”

But he was in livelier mood about her, when we took her gently home; and she rose from the chair with a rally of strength, and he said, “Well, Bessy, how do you feel now?”

“As if I wanted a good tea,” she answered; “and as if I never could thank this gentleman for the pleasure he has given us.”

I wondered whether in trying ever so feebly to give pleasure, I might have won, without earning, some great good for myself; and off I went (after proper words) to follow the course of the Duchess.