Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex

I could not go to her, and I could not say a word; and to tell the truth, I don’t know what I did. But I must have spread my arms, by some gift of nature; for before I could think of it, there she was; weeping – as I never could have thought it possible for any one, even in this world of tears, to weep.

Then she put up her hand, with the fingers thrown back, and stroked my cheeks gently, and said – “How thin! How thin!” Then she threw both arms around my neck, and drew my face down to her lips, and covered every inch of it with sobbing kisses. I pressed her sweet bosom to mine, and our hearts seemed to beat into one another.

“Oh, Kit, my own, own dear old Kit! Can you ever forgive me? Ever?”

She said this I dare say fifty times, scarcely allowing me to speak, for she said it was not good for me; withdrawing and feigning to be ashamed of her passionate love every now and then; and then rushing into my embrace again. Then she stood up, and threw back her beautiful hair, and said with the glance which she knew I adored —

“Well, how do you think I am looking, love? Don’t you think it is high time to tell me?”

She was wearing some foreign dress, beautifully cut, which set off her figure; and she knew it very well.

“I never saw you looking half so lovely,” I replied; “though I thought it impossible to improve you.”

“Sun-burnt, and freckled, and mosquito-bitten. But never mind, dear, if you love your own wife. We’ll soon make all that right again. Oh, I have been too wild! Feel how my heart is jumping.”

She was threatened with hysterics; but I soothed her gently, and she rested on my breast with her eyes half closed. As I looked at her, I felt that in this rapture I could die.

“Darling, I can hardly believe it yet;” she whispered, playing with my fingers to make sure; “see, this is my wedding-ring, I never took it off. What fine gold it is, not to tarnish with my tears. The drops that have fallen on it – oh, I wonder there is any blue left in my eyes at all! Do you think they are as blue, dear, as when you used to love them?”

“They are bluer, heart of hearts. They are larger and deeper. The tears of true love have made them still more lovely.”

“But yours are so worn, and sad, and harassed! That can’t be from loving me more than I love you; because that is simply impossible. But you never have been – tell me, tell me all the truth. Was there any truth whatever in that horrible tale? Remember I shall love you just the same. If you tore me to pieces I should love you.”

“What horrible tale? I have never heard of any horrible tale, except your going away.”

“And you don’t know the reason! Oh Kit, oh Kit, have you taken me back like this, without even knowing why I went?”

“Darling I have not the least idea why you went. I was too glad to get you back, to think of anything else.”

“Well, you are a true love! You are a husband such as no woman on the earth deserves. I don’t think even I could have taken you back so, if you had run away from me, and I knew nothing of the cause.”

“Oh yes, you would, Kitty; I am sure you would. I believe in you, just as you would in me, and talking has nothing to do with it. But how did you expect me to know all about it?”

“Why, of course, by the letter I sent you from Ascension. The moment we got your letter – the moment I could stop crying, crying, crying – I wrote you such a letter, darling. Oh, I thought it would have killed me with wonder, and with joy. It was almost as sweet as this – not quite, not quite; nothing else can ever be quite so sweet as this.”

“Then were you with your father? Were you with him all the time.”

“To be sure I was, dearest. Do you think I would have gone with any one else, away from you – away from my own husband?”

“But I thought it quite impossible for you to be with him. He was far in the Atlantic, dear, before you ran away.”

“Before I ran away! Oh Kit, oh Kit! And you thought I had run away with somebody else! Oh, what has my misery been, compared with yours? No wonder you are thin, dear; no wonder you are gaunt. Why, I can’t think how you can have managed to keep alive. I am sure I should have been dead, buried, and forgotten. Thirteen months, a year and a month, to be thinking your own new-married wife had run away, like a bad woman! Oh dear! Don’t stop me; I must cry again, or I may do something worse. And you have not even got my letter yet.”

“No. But I dare say it will come by-and-by. I expected no letter from you, of course, because I had no idea where you were; but every day I hoped for one from your father. But they told me the mails from Ascension are uncertain, because they take their chance of passing ships. Sometimes they don’t come for months together.

“Now will you read this?” she cried, jumping up with her old impetuosity; “I am very glad I kept it, though it makes me creep every time I touch it. That explains everything. Who wrote that?”

“It is like my writing; but I never wrote a word of it, and never saw, or dreamed of it before.”

“Whoever wrote that letter, Kit,” my wife said very solemnly, “ought to have his portion for ever and ever in the bottomless pit, where the fire is not quenched. I could never have believed that any human being could possibly have conceived such wickedness. But don’t read it now; it would take too long, and spoil our perfect happiness, darling. We must not be so selfish. No more kisses, until we have done our duty. Just put me into trim again, and let me do my hair up, and we must both run down to Uncle Corny’s. Nobody has seen me yet, but you. What do you think I did? I was quite resolved that no one should see me, but my own husband. So I left my things at Feltham, and ran all the way – flew all the way, I ought to say, and came through Love Lane all alone. Oh, we will never part again, not even for a day, Kit, or half a day. You must never let me out of your sight any more.”

“And not out of my arms, when I can help it,” I said, as with my dear wife still enclasped, and her hair waving over my bounding heart, I took her through the quiet alleys of the summer night, just to show her for a minute – for I could not spare her more – to the loyal and good Uncle Corny.

CHAPTER LXIV.

A MENSÂ ET TORO

It is out of my power to say, because I have never studied human nature – having more than I can properly get through with trees and animals – but according to the little I have seen, the spirit of revenge is stronger in women, than it usually is in us. Whatever wrong a man may have done me, if he only says that he is sorry for it, or if without that I have got the better of him, I am quite content that he should go, and settle the question as between him and the Lord. I wish him no ill, but what he may do himself; and even if I hear of his getting his deserts, I feel no elation, but endeavour to be sorry.

But my Uncle Corny, who understands the fair sex – at least according to his own account – declares that they not only cannot forgive a deadly wrong done to them, but continue to think that the world is a bad place and sadly neglected by Providence, until they see the people, who have made them unhappy, paying out for it, as they ought to do.

My Kitty was the very best of all her sex – which is saying a great deal more than some men may imagine, and means much more than if it were said of them – but still I could see that she was not contented even with our new honeymoon (which was ten times sweeter than the first one, though that had been most delicious), from a lofty desire for perfect justice; which a man is quite satisfied to do without, knowing (as he does) that otherwise he never could have satisfaction at all.

And yet I could see that she trembled, whenever she had hinted at that little drawback, for fear of the danger that it might involve to me; for she never seemed to think that I could take care of myself, as well as she took care of me.

It is not for me to say, how these things are, or rather how they ought to be; and I am free to acknowledge that if Downy Bulwrag had come down meddling with my wife again, I should have killed him; and risked the chance of being hanged for a fellow unworthy of it. And when I read aloud that wicked letter, in the presence of Kitty and my uncle, the next day, there were times when I longed to have him by the throat, and prevent more lies coming out of it. For the Devil himself must have stood at his elbow, and gone into his brain as well, while he was about it. And he had made the ground ready for his lies to grow, by a black mysterious note beforehand, signed – “A well-wisher in Sunbury.” This we had not in our possession yet; but Kitty knew the effect of it upon her father’s mind.

As I read the vile forgery, bearing my name, Uncle Corny fell back in his chair, and shut his lips. Then he closed his fist also, and from time to time he kept stamping with his boots, as if his feet were tingling. But Kitty put her tender hand into mine, and her breath was short, and her bosom heaved, and her eyes flashed like the summer-lightning, or sometimes filled with heavy drops.

My dear and respected Father-in-law, – “I have a sad confession to make to you, which I ought to have made long ago, but I knew that I must have lost your daughter by it. I will not pretend to excuse my conduct, for I know that I have behaved shamefully. But I could not foresee the frightful danger to which she is now exposed daily. My heart is almost broken, for I love her wildly, savagely, and in plain truth madly.

“Last Autumn I committed a very base act, and I am justly punished for it. To keep your sweet Kitty here a little longer, and give me more chances of seeing her, I was mean enough to steal Miss Coldpepper’s favourite dog, a mongrel called Regulus. I hid him in my uncle’s garden, while the country was being searched for him; and thus, as perhaps you remember, I obtained the honour of your acquaintance. But I was punished for that sneakish trick. The cur bit me thrice in the legs and thigh, and I am doomed to a horrible death I fear; for the dog has gone mad, and the disease was in him then.

“I have been, without any one’s knowledge, to the first authority in London on such matters, and he says that I ought to be watched, and must hold aloof from all family ties for a while. He asked if I was married, and then he told me the most horrible story I ever heard; and he conjured me, unless I wished to kill my wife, to separate from her for at least two years. When I would not promise that, he was anxious to write to her relatives himself; but I gave him a false address, and nothing came of that.

“I hoped that he might be mistaken, but now I feel that he was only too correct. Your Kitty is not safe with me another day. I have the most awful sensations sometimes. The malady has got hold of me too surely, though nobody yet suspects it. I have felt a wild desire to tear her to pieces; and the only atonement I can make for my offence is to beg you to take her immediately. You are likely to be away for about two years; and when you return, if I am still alive, which is most unlikely, I may safely reclaim her.

“I implore you not to let her know the cause of this sad parting. It would keep her in awful suspense and misery, and perhaps be as fatal to her, as I myself should be. She is so good and dutiful, and trusts me so entirely, that if you say it is my wish, for reasons you approve of – however she may grieve about it, she will not rebel. Come for her, or send for her, without my knowledge, without the knowledge of any one near our place; for if the story got abroad, I should go mad at once. My only hope lies in perfect quiet; therefore she must not write to me, and I must not hear a word, even from yourself, about her. She must not stop to pack up clothes, or anything whatever; for if I came in, I should destroy her, if I saw it. But order particularly that she shall take every farthing in the house she knows of, to equip her for her long voyage in a seaport town. The money is her own; and she must take it.

“I send this by hand, as I know not where you are; but the bearer knows how to find you. There is no answer, except to do what I implore most pitifully, if you wish to save your only child from a fearful death, at the hands of the one who loves her so madly. I pray God that you may be yet in time. I feel a little calmer after writing this. This morning I was in agony at the sight of water. May the Lord have you, and my darling in his keeping. Oh, how base I have been, but I have done no murder yet!

“Your heart-broken son-in-law,“C. Orchardson.”

When I had finished, my uncle spoke; for Kitty could only press my hand, and sometimes look at me, and sometimes turn her eyes away and blush.

“These are the things,” my uncle said, “that make one ashamed of being called a man. No snake could do such a thing, and no dog would, however mankind might train him. And the bit of piety towards the end! The father was a blackguard, the mother a Fury, the son is the Devil with all his angels. Oh Kit, Kit, I am old, and have met with a great deal of wickedness, but none like this.”

“But you know, Uncle Corny, you must not be disturbed,” said Kitty going up to him, and kissing his forehead, in her sweet and graceful way, “just because there happen to be bad people in the world. It has always been so, and I fear it always must. And you must not imagine that Kit meant any harm, by – by just borrowing Auntie Coldpepper’s dog. He did it – oh, so cleverly – just for the sake of seeing me; and he quite changed the character of that dog. But how can that bad man have found it out?”

“Through Harker,” I exclaimed, “through that wretch of a Harker, who was always spying on these premises. Sam Henderson knew it, most likely through him; but Sam would never have spoken of it.”

“It is true, then,” said my uncle. “Well, I thought it was a lie. I am surprised to find that I have a dogstealer for my nephew.”

“It was Tabby made him do it. And I am very glad she did. But the first thing Dr. Cutler said to me, when my heart was nearly broken with his message, was – ‘Did your husband steal that dog?’ And of course I said ‘Yes;’ for Kit had told me all about it, when we were at Baycliff; and no doubt that convinced the good doctor that all the rest of that sad wicked letter was true. You know, Uncle Corny, that it was impossible for my father to leave the ship, and he sent his old friend Dr. Cutler to fetch me. Oh, how I did cry all the way! I thought there never would be any more happiness for me. And of course they never told me why I was to go. I thought that Kit must be tired of me; and yet I could not quite believe that, you know. Oh, Kit, I shall never be tired of you.”

“Don’t cry, my darling,” said my uncle kindly. “We have had enough tears to drown that devilish letter. Now sit on Kit’s lap, to make sure of him, and tell me your own adventures, for I have only guessed them yet.”

“Oh, I had no adventures, and I never noticed anything, only to ask how far we were from England, and to count the days till we should have finished all the work. I made a little calendar, as the girls do at school, the girls I mean who have real mothers, and I blotted out every day when it was over, and thought – ‘one less now before I see Kit again.’ Of course I asked my father what had made him send for me, and he said it was my husband’s most earnest entreaty, and if I loved him I must ask no more, but keep up my spirits and obey his orders. Father never showed me this letter, or I think – though I can’t be quite sure – that I should have doubted about it. The writing is exactly like Kit’s in some places, but in others it is different, and the style is not like Kit’s. That wicked man stole several letters of Kit’s; I suspected it then, and now I know it.

“My father had not the smallest doubt, of course, but he was puzzled when I spoke about that telegram, you know what I mean – the one from Captain Jenkins at Falmouth, to say the ship was on her voyage, and to send good-bye to us. He had sent no such message, and had spoken no such ship, and said that it must be some extraordinary mistake. But you see now it was another piece of falsehood, to make it look impossible that I could be with my father.

“It was father himself who went to Baycliff to inquire, knowing that we had been there, and being near it. But he could not come here, and so he sent Dr. Cutler, who knows all this neighbourhood well, and managed it all to perfection with the help of some one, who was sent by agreement to meet him. Oh dear, when I think of that dreadful time; and I was not allowed to leave a line for my husband, except what I wrote, on the sly, in the Prayer-book. Well, that did him some good, at any rate; didn’t it, my own darling?

“I am quite ashamed to talk of my own sorrow, when I think of what Kit has been through for me. But I am sure I ate nothing for at least a month, and Dr. Cutler, who was in charge of the health of the ship’s company, became quite uneasy about me. As for their experiments, deep-sea dredging, and soundings, and temperatures, and all that, I did not even care to look at them, and I am not a bit more scientific than when I went out, though perhaps I shall talk as if I was, by-and-by. The only thing I felt any interest in was the rescue of a poor afflicted man – I think they called him a Spaniard, though he seemed to me more like an Englishman – who was kept as a prisoner among some savages in a desert place in South America. He was terribly afflicted with some horrible disease; and the sailors would not go near him, until they were ashamed when they saw me do it. We were all very kind to him, but he left us, and got on board another ship bound for home.

“Oh, how I used to tremble, Kit, whenever we saw a ship in the distance, hoping for news of you, my dear, and of Uncle Corny, and everybody. But we met very few ships, being generally employed in out-of-the-way places, and only landing anywhere two or three times, for water, or fruit, or vegetables.

“But when we got to Ascension Island, which is an English place, you know, what a joyful surprise there was for me! I shall always bless that little rocky spot, for it gave me back my life again. When father received my husband’s letter, for the first time in his life, he was in a real fury. Something or other had occurred before, besides that affair of the telegram, which made him a little doubtful about this wicked, wicked letter. And now he saw at once that he had been imposed upon most horribly. We were all afraid that he would have had a fit, but Dr. Cutler saved him.

“‘My poor injured child!’ he kept on exclaiming; ‘wretched for at least a year, and injured for life, by this monstrous villainy!’ He would have thrown up his command at once, if he could have done it honourably, and brought me home by the very next ship. But if he had done so, the cruise must have ended; for Lieutenant Morris, who was next to him, was invalided at Fort George. I was quite ready to come home alone, by any ship, English or foreign; but as it happened, Dr. Cutler received by the same mail an urgent request from his wife for his return; and so the very gentleman I ran away with brought me back to my husband. It was a long time before we could get a ship, and then it was only a sailing vessel, and oh how slowly she seemed to go! Then about a month ago, we had a very heavy storm, which drove us I don’t know how far out of our course, and I thought that I never should see Kit again. But now it seems all like a horrible dream. Father will be home, in November, I hope. I intend to work hard to help Uncle Corny; and Kit will soon be well again, with me to mind him.”

CHAPTER LXV.

HER OWN WAY

“You must not let it drop, Kit; you can’t let it drop,” said Aunt Parslow, as she sat in our parlour, the next day, having ordered Parker’s fly, as soon as she received my letter; “for the sake of your sweet wife, you are absolutely bound to expose this horrid miscreant. I doubt if there ever was such a case before, though nothing ever surprises me. It was very nasty of you to steal that dog – why, you might have come and stolen Jupiter, on the very same principle of a pretty girl – and you have been punished, even more than you deserved. You deserved a month in the stocks perhaps, with all the dogs in the village sniffing at you; but you did not deserve to lose your own wife, just when you had time to get fond of her. I am not for revenge; I am too old to fancy that we can do much to right ourselves, even if the feeling was Christian; but I belong to an honourable family, in which the fair fame of a lady was never neglected.”

“I declare I never thought once of that; it never occurred to me in that light,” I answered with perfect truth; for my Kitty’s fair fame seemed to me so entirely above all question, that it could not need any assertion; “but since it is capable of being looked at so, there is no doubt what my duty is.”

“No husband of proper spirit could doubt for a moment what his duty is.” Miss Parslow spoke very severely; but my wife looked at her reproachfully, and ran up to me.

“No, Kit, no. You shall not go near him. There is nothing too bad for him to do. I have lost you quite long enough already. What do I care what anybody says? Miss Parslow, you have been wonderfully kind, and it is impossible to thank you. Don’t spoil it all, by putting this into his head.”

“My dear, we shall send the two policemen with him,” my aunt replied rather sarcastically; “we know how precious he is, and we won’t have him hurt. Or perhaps your Uncle Cornelius might go. He has no wife, to make a to-do about him. Look, here he comes with somebody, to tell us something! He walks like a man of thirty-five, and how polite he always is!”

Uncle Corny had brought Mrs. Wilcox from his house, and that good lady was in great excitement. She fell upon Kitty, and kissed and hugged her, until I thought really there had been enough of that; and then she turned round, and addressed us at large, casting forth her words with vehemence, and throwing out her hands, as if to catch them.

“Ladies, and gents, oh ladies and gents, such a thing have just come to my knowledge through Ted, which is the most intellectuous boy, though my own child, and was never such myself. I set off straightway, when I heard it, and beg to excoose of my present disapparel, to catch the three ten ’bus, or else wait another hour. And if there is a good horse on the place, which by the look of it there must be many, I do beg of Master Kit to put him in at once, if not too late to prevent bloody murder. Them police is so slow, so slow; though I never join in a single word against them, for all morshal men is fallible.”

“I can’t make out what it is,” said Uncle Corny, when we all looked at him, for an explanation; “this good lady must be allowed her own time; I am afraid that I have hurried her.”

“Not at all, Mr. Orchardson, not at all. Nothing could be more gentlemanly, and I will say the same of all Sunbury. But the wedding was to be to-morrow, gents, regardless of expense, at eleven o’clock, at the church of Saint Nicholas, the Virgin. It was not for me to forbid the banns, though knowing of holy impediments. Very handsome it was to be with six bridesmaids, Miss Frizzy and Miss Jerry for two of them. Cook, who is a very self-respected young woman, though Ted says she have turned forty-two, and no concern of his if she is even two and forty, she dropped in promiscuous and told me all about it, and all was as merry as a marriage-bell. But just as I was having my bit of dinner, in she comes with her cap-ribbons flying off, and her apron-strings burst, being rather stout with running.

“‘For God’s sake, come up, Mrs. Wilcox,’ she says ‘or there’ll be murder done, murder done, and nobody to see it.’

“I was there in two minutes, as you may suppose; and there was madam, tearing up and down the front walk, with her black silk cloak on that makes her look so tall, and her face – oh, you should have seen the colour of it, and the flashing of her eyes, and the waving of her arms. ‘I insist upon knowing. I insist upon going in. Am I going to be locked out of my own house? To-morrow, indeed! Don’t talk to me of to-morrow. How dare you prevent me from entering my own door? I’ll find out your disgraceful tricks, and expose you. You are not fit to marry a respectable girl. I’ll send for a policeman, and have the door forced.’

“‘You won’t do anything of the kind,’ her son Mr. Downy made answer quietly, although I could see that he was awful pale, and he sat on a kitchen chair in front of the door, with his broad shoulders set against it. ‘I tell you it is for your sake that I will not allow it. You may walk about all night, but you won’t walk in here.’