An arrant piece of mischief was that Kitty Coleman, with her deep,
bewildering eyes, that said all sorts of strange things to your heart,
and yet looked as innocent all the time as though conducting themselves
with the utmost propriety, and her warm, ripe lips, making you think at
once of “the rose’s bed that a bee would choose to dream in.” And so
wild and unmanagable was she—oh, it was shocking to _proper_ people to
look at her! And then to hear her, too! why, she actually laughed aloud,
Kitty Coleman did! I say Kitty, because everybody called her Kitty but
her Aunt Martha; she was an orderly gentlewoman, who disapproved of loud
laughing, romping, and nick-naming, as she did of other crimes, so she
always said Miss Catharine. She thought, too, that Miss Catharine’s
hair, those long, golden locks, like rays of floating sunshine,
wandering about her shoulders, should be gathered up into a comb, and
the little lady was once really so obliging as to make trial of the
scheme, but at the first bound she made after Rover, the burnished cloud
broke from its ignoble bondage, descending in a glittering shower, and
the little silver comb nestled down in the deep grass, resigning its
office of jailor forever. Oh, Kitty _was_ a sad romp! It is a hard thing
to say of one we all loved so well; but Aunt Martha said it, and shook
her head the while and sighed; and the squire, Aunt Martha’s brother,
said it, and held out his arms for his pet to spring into; and serious
old ladies said it, and said, too,—what a pity it was that young people
now-a-days had no more regard for propriety. Even Enoch Snow, the great
phrenologist, buried his fingers in those dainty locks that none but a
phrenologist had a right to touch, and waiting only for a succession of
peals of vocal music, which interrupted his scientific researches, to
subside, declared that her organ of mirthfulness was very, very
strikingly developed. This, then, placed the matter beyond all
controversy; and it was henceforth expected that Kitty would do what
nobody else could do, and say what nobody else had a right to say; and
the sin of all, luckily for her, was to be laid upon a strange
idiosyncracy, a peculiar mental, or rather cerebral conformation, over
which she had no control; and so Kitty was forgiven, forgiven by all
but——. We had a little story to tell.
I have heard that Cupid is blind; but of that I do not believe a
word—indeed, I have “confirmation strong,” that the malicious little
knave has the gift of clairvoyance, aiming at hearts wrapped in the
triple foldings of selfishness, conceit, and gold. Ay, didn’t he perch
himself now in the eye, and now on the lip of Kitty Coleman, and with a
marvelously steady aim, imitating a personage a trifle more dreaded,
“Cut down all, both great and small!” Blind! no, no—he saw a trifle too
well when he counted out his arrows; and the laughing rogue was ready to
burst with merriment, as he peeped into his empty quiver, and then
looked abroad upon the havoc he had made. But people said that there was
one who had escaped him, a winsome gallant, for whom all but Kitty
Coleman had a bright glance, and a gentle word. As for Kitty, she cared
not a rush for Harry Gay, and sought to annoy him all in her power; and
the gentleman in his turn stalked past her with all the dignity of a
great man’s ghost. Bitter, bitter enemies were Harry Gay and Kitty
Coleman. One evening, just because the pretty belle was present, Harry
took it into his head to be as stupid as a block or a scholar, for,
notwithstanding his promising name, our young Lucifer could be stupid.
Kitty Coleman was very angry, as was proper—for what right had any one
to be stupid in her presence? The like never was heard of before. Kitty,
in her indignation, said he did not know how to be civil; and then she
sighed, doubtless at the boorishness of scholars in general, and this
one in particular; and then she laughed so long and musically, that the
lawyer, the school-master, the four clerks, the merchant, and Lithper
Lithpet, the dandy, all joined in the chorus, though, for the life of
them, they could not have told what the lady laughed at. Harry Gay drew
up his head with as much dignity as though he had known the mirth was at
his expense, cast contemptuous glances toward the group of nod-waiters,
and then, to show his own superior taste, attached himself to the
ugliest woman in the room. It was very strange that Kitty Coleman should
have disregarded entirely the opinion of such a distingué gentleman, but
she only laughed the louder when she saw that he was annoyed by it;
indeed, his serious face seemed to infuse the very spirit, ay, the
concentrated, double-distilled essence of mirth into her; and a more
frolicksome creature never existed than she was, till the irritated
scholar, unable to endure it any longer, disappeared in the quietest
manner possible. Then all of a sudden the self-willed belle declared
that she hated parties, she never would go to another; and making her
adieus in the most approved don’t-care style, insisted on being taken
home at once.
Harry Gay was not a native of our village; he came from one of the
eastern cities to spend a summer there; and Aunt Martha said he was too
well-bred to have any patience with the hoydenish manners of her romping
niece. But Kitty insisted that her manners were not hoydenish; and if
her heart overflowed, it was not her fault, she could not shut up all
the glad feelings within her, they would leap back to the call of their
kindred, gushing from other bosoms, and to all the beautiful, beautiful
things of creation, as joyous in their mute eloquence as she was.
Besides, the wicked little Kitty Coleman was always very angry that Aunt
Martha should attempt to govern her conduct by the likings of Harry Gay;
she would not be dictated to by him, even though his opinions received
the sanction of her infallible aunt. But the lady made a trifling
mistake on the subject matter of his interference. He did not slander
her, and always waived the theme of her follies when her Aunt Martha
introduced it; indeed, he never was heard to speak of the belle but
once—once he swore she had no soul—(the shameless Mohammedan!) a
remark which was only five minutes in reaching its object. But Kitty
Coleman, though shockingly indignant, was not cast down by it. She
called Harry Gay more names than he, scholar as he was, could have
thought of in a month, and wound up with a remark no less formidable
than the one which had excited her ire. And Kitty was right. A pretty
judge of soul he, to be sure—a man that never laughed! how on earth can
people who go through the world cold and still, like the clods they
tread upon, pretend to know any thing about soul?
Harry Gay used to go to Squire Coleman’s very often, and sit all the
evening and talk with the squire and Aunt Martha, while his great, black
eye turned slowly in the direction Kitty moved; but Kitty would not look
at him, not she. What right had a stranger, and a visiter, too, to make
such a very great parade of his disapprobation? If she did not please
him, why she pleased others; and that was enough, she would not turn
over her finger to gain his good will. So Harry and Kitty never talked
together; and when he went away, (he never went till the conversation
fairly died out, and the lamps looked as if about to join it,) he bowed
to the old people gracefully and easily, but to the young lady he found
it difficult to bend at all. Conduct like this provoked Kitty Coleman
beyond endurance; and one evening, after the squire and spinster had
left her alone, she sat down and in very spite, sobbed away as though
her little heart would break. Now it happened that the squire had lent
his visiter a book that evening, which, strange enough for such a
scholar, he had forgotten to take with him; but Harry remembered it
before it was too late, and turned upon his heel. He had gone out but a
moment before, and there was no use in ringing, so he stepped at once
into the parlor. Poor Kitty sprang to her feet at the intrusion, and
crushed with her fingers two tears that were just ready to lanch
themselves on the roundest and rosiest cheek in the world, but she might
have done better than blind herself for her foot touched Aunt Martha’s
_fauteuil_, and, in consequence, her forehead touched the neck of Rover.
It is very awkward to be surprised in the luxurious indulgence of tears
at any time, and it is a trifle more awkward still to fall down, and
then be raised by the last person in the world you would receive a favor
from. Kitty felt the awkwardness of her situation too much to speak;
and, of course, Harry, enemy as he was, could not release her until he
knew whether she was hurt. It was certain she was not faint, for the
crimson blood dyed even the tips of her fingers, and Harry’s face
immediately took the same hue, probably from reflection. Kitty looked
down until a golden arc of fringe rested lovingly on its glowing
neighbor; and Harry looked down, too, but his eye rested on Kitty
Coleman’s face. If soul and heart are one and the same thing, as some
metaphysicians tell us, Harry must now have discovered the mistake he
once made, for there was a strange commotion beneath the boddice of
Kitty Coleman; it rose and fell, as nothing but a bounding, throbbing,
frightened heart, in the wildest tumult of excited feeling, could make
it. And then (poor Kitty must have been hurt, and needed support) an arm
stole softly around her waist, dark locks mingled with her sunny ones as
a warm breath swept over her cheek—and Kitty Coleman hid her face, not
in her hands.
Harry forgot his book again that night, and never thought of it until
the squire put it in his hand the next morning; for Harry visited the
squire very early the next morning, and had a private interview; and the
good old gentleman tapped him on the shoulder, and said, “with all my
heart;” and Aunt Martha looked as glad as propriety would let her. As
for Kitty Coleman, she did not show her face, not she—for she knew they
were talking about her, the sober old people and the meddling Harry Gay.
But when the arrant mischief-maker had accomplished his object, and was
bounding from the door, there came a great rustling among the
rose-bushes, insomuch that a shower of bright blossoms descended from
them, and Harry turned a face, brimming over with joy, to the fragrant
thicket, and shook down another fragile shower, in seeking out the cause
of the disturbance. Now, as ill-luck would have it, Kitty Coleman had
hidden away from her enemy in this very thicket; and there she was
discovered, all confusion, trembling and panting, and—. I am afraid
poor Kitty never quite recovered from the effects of her fall—for the
arm of Harry Gay seemed very necessary to her forever after.
* * * * *