KIT AND KITTY
LONDON:
PRINTED BY GILBERT AND RIVINGTON, LD.,
ST. JOHN’S HOUSE, CLERKENWELL ROAD, E.C.
KIT AND KITTY
A Story of West Middlesex
BY
R. D. BLACKMORE
AUTHOR OF LORNA DOONE, SPRINGHAVEN, CHRISTOWELL, ETC.
“Si tu Caia, ego Caius.”
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION_
LONDON
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
_Limited_
St. Dunstan’s House
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1894
[_All rights reserved_]
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_Crown 8vo. 6s. each in handsome uniform cloth binding._
ALICE LORRAINE.*
CLARA VAUGHAN.*
LORNA DOONE.*
CHRISTOWELL.*
CRADOCK NOWELL.*
CRIPPS THE CARRIER.*
MARY ANERLEY.*
TOMMY UPMORE.
SPRINGHAVEN.
KIT AND KITTY.
_Volumes marked * can be had in boards, 2s.; cloth, 2s. 6d. each._
Crown 4to. about 530 pp., with very numerous full-page
and other Illustrations, cloth extra, gilt edges,
31_s._ 6_d._, very handsomely bound in vellum, 35_s._,
an _Edition de Luxe_ of LORNA DOONE. Beautifully
illustrated Edition. (A choice presentation volume.)
SPRINGHAVEN: a Tale of the Great War. By R. D.
BLACKMORE, author of ‘Lorna Doone.’ With 64
Illustrations by ALFRED PARSONS and F. BARNARD. Square
demy 8vo. cloth extra, gilt edges, price 12_s._ and
7_s._ 6_d._
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,
_Limited_,
St. Dunstan’s House, Fetter Lane, Fleet Street, E.C.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.—UNCLE CORNY 1
II.—MY KITTY 3
III.—THE TIMBER-BRIDGE 7
IV.—PEACHES, AND PEACHING 12
V.—A LITTLE TIFF 18
VI.—THE BEAUTIES OF NATURE 22
VII.—DE GUSTIBUS 29
VIII.—BAD COUNSEL 37
IX.—A DOG VIOLATE 42
X.—AN UPWARD STROKE 50
XI.—THE FINE ARTS 55
XII.—AN EMPTY PILE 61
XIII.—MY UNCLE BEGINS 67
XIV.—AND ENDS WITH A MORAL 74
XV.—MORAL SUPPORT 82
XVI.—TRUE LOVE 89
XVII.—TRUE FATHER 96
XVIII.—FALSE MOTHER 102
XIX.—DOE DEM. ROE 109
XX.—AUNT PARSLOW 115
XXI.—A TULIP BLOOM 122
XXII.—COLDPEPPER HALL 128
XXIII.—AT BAY, AND IN THE BAY 135
XXIV.—HARO! 141
XXV.—ON THE SHELF 149
XXVI.—A DOWNY COVE 155
XXVII.—OFF THE SHELF 162
XXVIII.—OUT OF ALL REASON 168
XXIX.—A FINE TIP 175
XXX.—BASKETS 183
XXXI.—THE GIANT OF THE HEATH 189
XXXII.—A DREAM 199
XXXIII.—URGENT MEASURES 206
XXXIV.—TWO TO ONE 214
XXXV.—UNDER THE GARDEN WALL 216
XXXVI.—FROST IN MAY 229
XXXVII.—COLD COMFORT 233
XXXVIII.—NONE 241
XXXIX.—ON TWO CHAIRS 248
XL.—JOB’S COMFORT 256
XLI.—TRUE COMFORT 262
XLII.—BEHIND THE FIDDLE 268
XLIII.—THE GREAT LADY 275
XLIV.—MET AGAIN 282
XLV.—ROGUES FALL OUT 288
XLVI.—TONY TONKS 296
XLVII.—TOADSTOOLS 303
XLVIII.—THE DUCHESS 310
XLIX.—CRAFTY, AND SIMPLE 317
L.—A POCKETFUL OF MONEY 325
LI.—NOT IN A HURRY 332
LII.—A WANDERING GLEAM 338
LIII.—A BAD NIGHT 343
LIV.—PRINCE’S MANSION 350
LV.—RELIEF OF MIND 356
LVI.—ANOTHER TRACE 359
LVII.—A VAIN APPEAL 366
LVIII.—UNCLE CORNY’S LOVE-TALE 373
LXIX.—A COOL REQUEST 381
LX.—ALIVE IN DEATH 387
LXI.—ZINKA 396
LXII.—HASTE TO THE WEDDING 402
LXIII.—THERE SAT KITTY 408
LXIV.—A MENSÂ ET TORO 414
LXV.—HER OWN WAY 420
LXVI.—ONE GOOD WISH 427
KIT AND KITTY.
CHAPTER I.
UNCLE CORNY.
MY name is Christopher Orchardson, of Sunbury in Middlesex; and I have
passed through a bitter trouble, which I will try to describe somehow,
both for my wife’s sake and my own, as well as to set us straight again
in the opinion of our neighbours, which I have always valued highly,
though sometimes unable to show it. It has not been in my power always
to do the thing that was wisest, and whenever this is brought up
against me, I can make no answer, only to beg those who love blame to
look at themselves, which will make their eyes grow kinder, before they
begin to be turned on me.
For five and twenty years of life I went on very happily, being of an
unambitious sort, and knowing neither plague nor pain, through the
strength of my constitution and the easiness of my nature. Most of
my neighbours seemed to live in perpetual lack of something, and if
ever they got it they soon contrived to find something more to hanker
for. There were times when I felt that I must be a fool, or to say the
least a dullard, for slackness of perception, which kept me satisfied
with the life I had to live. But two things may be pleaded well in my
excuse on this account; in the first place, all my time was spent among
creatures of no ambition—trees, and flowers, and horses, and the like,
that have no worry; and what was even to the purpose more, I had no
money to enlarge its love.
For my Uncle Cornelius—better known to all who had dealings with him as
“Corny, the topper”—took care of me, and his main care was to make me
useful, as an orphan should be. My father had been his elder brother,
and had married rashly a lady of birth and education far above his own,
but gifted with little else to help her, unless it were sweetness of
disposition, and warmth of heart, and loveliness. These in a world like
ours are not of much account for wearing; and she had no chance to wear
them out, being taken away quite suddenly. My life was given at the
cost of hers, and my father, after lingering for a few months, took his
departure to look for her.
Old people said that my Uncle Corny had been very fond of my mother,
looking up to her in his youthful days, as a wonder of grace and
goodness. And even now when he spoke about her, as I have known him to
do after a tumbler of grog, his hard grey eyes would glisten softly,
like the vinery glass of an afternoon, when a spring cloud passes over
it. But none the more for that did he ever plant a shilling in my
youthful hand. This proves his due estimate of money as a disadvantage
to the young.
My uncle possessed an ancient garden, which had once belonged to a
monastery; and the times being better than now they are, he was enabled
to work it so that he made fair living out of it. We lived in an
ancient cottage in the fine old village of Sunbury, or rather to the
westward of that village, and higher up the river. Our window looked
upon the Thames, with nothing more than the Shepperton Road, and the
slope of the bank to look over. What with water-works, grand villas,
the railway, and other changes, the place is now so different that a
native may scarcely know it. But all was thoroughly simple, quiet, and
even dull to lazy folk, in the days of which I am speaking.
My parents had managed to leave me so, or had it so managed by a higher
power, that from my very infancy I was thrown upon Uncle Corny. He was
a masterful man indeed, being of a resolute disposition, strong body,
and stout sentiments. There was no mistaking his meaning when he spoke,
and he spoke no more than a man is bound to do, for his own uses. Those
who did not understand his nature said a great deal against him, and he
let them say it to the width of their mouths. For he felt that he was
good inside, and would be none the better for their meddling.
He was now about threescore years of age, and wished himself no
younger, having seen enough of the world to know that to pass through
it once is quite enough. Few things vexed him much, except to find
his things sold below their value; and that far less for the love of
money than from the sense of justice. But when he was wronged—as all
producers, being one to a thousand, must be—he was not the man to make
a to-do, and write to the papers about it. All he did was to drive his
stick into the floor, and look up at the ceiling. For his own part he
was quite ready to be proved in the wrong, whenever he could see it;
and whatever may be said, I can answer for it, there are more men now
than can be counted in a year, who are under Uncle Corny’s mark; while
an hour would be ample for the names of those who would dare to look
over my uncle’s head, when he comes to be judged finally.
All this is too much of a preface for him. His manner was always to
speak for himself, and he must become somebody else, ere ever he would
let his young nephew do it for him.