A FRIEND GAINED
Kate fled upstairs to her bedroom, where she might be alone and have
free scope for tears. She threw herself on her knees by her bed, and
putting her hands under the patchwork quilt, drew it over her ears and
head, that the sound of her sobs might be muffled, so as not to reach
her aunt were she to ascend the staircase. She feared lest there should
be a repetition of the scene on the return of her father. Aunt Zerah
would wait impatiently for him, and the moment that he arrived, would
pour forth her story, not in his ear only, but in Kate’s as well, whom
she would forcibly retain to hear it and receive the reproaches of her
father. That her father would be disappointed that she had put from her
the chance of becoming a well-to-do yeoman’s wife, she knew for certain.
He had never concerned himself very greatly about her, had never
endeavoured to sound her mind and put his finger on her heart, and would
be quite unable to appreciate the reasons she could give for her
conduct; he would look on her refusal of young Pooke as a bit of girlish
caprice. She feared that he would view it as a bad speculation, and
would hasten off without consulting her, to endeavour to pacify the
mortified vanity of the old man, and to assure the young one that she,
Kate, had rejected him out of girlish bashfulness, whilst loving him in
her heart. There was no bond of sympathy between her father and herself.
That which filled his mind had no place in hers; what interested him she
shrank from. She had returned from Dartmoor with heart glowing with
gratitude to him for having insisted on her having a holiday, to her
uncle for having taken her out to Dartmoor, and to her aunt for having
spared her. It had been her desire to find occasions to prove to them
that she was grateful, and now, her first act on return was to run
contrary to their wishes, and anger her uncle and aunt, and lay up
matter for reprimand on the arrival of her father.
Her aunt had never comprehended the character of Kate, filled to the
full as her heart was with bitterness at the loss of her own daughter.
Kate was in all points the reverse of Wilmot, and because so unlike,
woke the antipathy of the bereaved mother, as though the silence and
reserve of Kate were assumed out of slight to the memory of the merry,
open-hearted girl. She looked on her niece as perverse, as acting in
everything out of a spirit of contrariety. How else explain that a young
girl with warm blood in her veins should not retain the longings and
express the wishes common to other girls of her age? that she had no
fancy for dress, made no efforts to coquette with anyone, had no desire
for social amusements?
Wilmot had been frolicsome, roguish, winsome—did Kate desire to eschew
everything that had made her cousin a sunbeam in the house, and the
delight of her mother’s heart, out of wilfulness, and determination not
to please her aunt, not to make up to her for the loss of her own child?
Not only by her aunt was Kate regarded as heartless and perverse. That
was the character she bore in the village, among the girls of her own
age, among the elders who adopted the opinions of their daughters. Kate
had been brought in contact with the village girls at school, in the
choir, and elsewhere, and some had even attempted to make friends with
her. But those things which occupied the whole souls of such young
creatures—dress, the budding inclination to attract the youths of the
place—were distasteful to Kate; there was nothing in common between them
and her, and when both became conscious of this, they mutually drew
apart, and the girls arrived at the same conclusion as her aunt, that
she was a dull, unfeeling child, who was best left alone.
Kate had felt acutely this solitariness in which she lived; her aunt had
often thrown it in her teeth that she made no friends. Her father was
displeased that he heard no good report of his daughter; her uncle had
rudely told her that a girl who made herself so unpopular to her own sex
would never attract one of the other. Now the opportunity had come to
her to falsify his predictions, to gratify her father, and to make her
aunt proud—but she had rejected it, and was more than ever alone.
Loneliness was endurable ordinarily. Kitty had her occupations, and,
when not occupied, her thoughts, recently her book, to engross her; but
now, when her own relatives were against her it was more than she could
bear. The pain of desolation became insupportable. There were but two
persons she knew with whom she was in touch, two persons only who could
feel with and for her, and to one of these she could not fly.
The rector, whom she had loved and respected, was the only friend to
whom she could unburden her trouble, and she feared to approach him,
because she had just done what he might not like, any more than did her
uncle and aunt. He would hear, and that speedily, of her conduct, and
Kate wished greatly to see him, and explain her refusal to him as far as
she could, that he might not blame her. But even should her explanation
prove unsatisfactory to him, she was not prepared to withdraw her
refusal. Kate never wavered. She was one of those direct persons who,
when they have taken a course, hold to it persistently.
She rose from her knees, bathed her face, brushed her hair, and
descended.
Her aunt was in the kitchen, and averted her face as the girl entered.
She did not ask Kate where she was going, nor turn her head to see what
she was about.
“I shall be back again in a few minutes, auntie; if you can spare me, I
should like to go out.”
No answer; and Kate left.
She had not taken many steps from the house, walking with her head down,
as the glare of the sun was too strong for her tear-stung eyes, when she
was caught, and before she could see in whose arms she was, she was
boisterously kissed.
“You are a dear! you are a darling! I shall always love you.”
Kitty saw before her Rose Ash, with glowing cheeks and dancing eyes.
“You darling! I never believed it of you, you are so still. I thought
you were sly. I am so sorry I misunderstood you; so sorry I did anything
or said anything against you. I will never do it again. I will stand
your friend; I will fight your battles. And, look here!”
A polished wood workbox was at her feet. She had put it down for the
purpose of disengaging her hands to hug Kate.
“Look, Kitty! This is my own workbox. Is it not beautiful? It has a
mother-of-pearl escutcheon on it and lock-plate. And it locks—really
locks—not make-believe, like some you buy. And, see! pink silk inside.
It is for you. I give it to you. It is nearly new. I am not much of a
needlewoman, and so have not used it. It is really a hundred times
better than that which Noah knocked—I mean, that which the bear danced
upon and smashed. And there is a silver thimble in it. I give it you
with all my heart—that is to say, with as much heart as I have left to
give to anyone.”
Kate stepped back in astonishment. What did this mean?
“O Kitty! you really shall no longer be Kitty Alone; it shall be Kitty
and Rose. We shall be regular friends. Only think! I was so jealous of
you. I thought that Jan Pooke had taken a fancy to you—and I suppose the
silly noodle had done so for a bit, but you know he properly belongs to
me. We are to make a pair—everyone says so, and his father and sister
Sue wish it; and I’m sure, I’m sure, so do I. But men are cruel giddy,
they turn and turn like weathercocks; and just for a while Jan fancied
you. But you put him off bravely, you did.”
“What have I done to you?” asked Kate.
“My dear, I heard it all. I saw you and Jan going to the orchard, and I
was so jealous that I hid myself in the linhay. I got over the hedge and
tore my frock in a bramble, but I did not heed it; I slipped in where I
could peep and see, and put out my ears and listen. I know everything. I
heard how you spoke up for me, and quite right and reasonable too; and
how you refused him, and very sensible you was. Just think what a thing
it would ha’ been, Kitty, if he’d gone right off his head and married
you, and then come to his senses and found he had got the wrong one, and
it was me all along he should have had. You would never have known
happiness after. You never would have enjoyed peace of conscience again.
But you were a sensible child, and did what you ought to ha’ done, and
nobody can’t do more than that; nor promise and vow to do more than what
is in the catechism. So, now, I’m all for you, and there is my workbox I
give you in place of that the bear kicked to pieces. I don’t mind
telling you now, Kate, that Noah did it. I put him up to it; I told him
he was to do it. He didn’t like it, but I forced him to it—I mean to
knock the workbox from under your arm. He’s a good chap is Noah, and now
that it is all put right between Jan and me”—
“Is it? Have you spoken with him?”
“Oh no, I can’t say that; but you have refused him. It will take him a
day or two to steady his head, and then he will come up right again, and
we will make it up, and be the better friends in the end. And, what is
more, I’ll stand friend to you, Kate. I daresay you’d like Noah, and
I’ll get him to walk you out on Sundays and to sweetheart you.”
“I don’t want Noah,” said Kate, shrinking.
“Oh yes, you do. Every girl must have her young chap. It ain’t natural
without. I’ll speak with him. He’s a terrible good chap is Noah; he’ll
do anything I ask him. I made him knock the workbox under the bear’s
feet, and if he’d do that much for me, I’m sure you need not be afraid
but he’d sweetheart you at my axing. Besides, he’ll be tremendous thrown
out when he sees me take up with Jan again, and he’ll want some one to
walk with, and may just as well take you as another.”
“No; please, Rose, do not. I had rather be left alone.”
“Stuff and fiddlesticks! It is not right that you should be without a
sweetheart. You leave all that to me.”
“No, dear Rose, no. You be my friend; that suffices.”
“It is because I am your friend that I will do a friend’s part.”
“No, no, Rose.”
“Well, you always were queer; I can’t understand you. But never mind; we
are friends, though you make me a helpless one. What is the good of a
friend but to assist a girl to a lover?”