KITTY SINGS
Miss Johanna decided finally on moss-green.
"It's emblematic, you see!" she explained to the Misses Bygood, who had
come in state and their best summer silks ("a _little_ early for them,"
Miss Almeria admitted, "but something festal--Johanna will appreciate
our motive!") to offer their best wishes.
"Our congratulations," Miss Almeria said impressively, "are for Edward."
Miss Johanna raised her eyebrows. "Poor Edward!" she said. "Do you
remember John's remark to Mrs. Pringle when Emmy was engaged? 'I
congratulate you, ma'am, on this auspicious and desolating event!' As I
was saying, girls, moss-green is not only becoming to me, it is also
emblematic. Green is for hope, which springs eternal, you know; moss is
appropriate for age. Velvet, because Edward swears he won't marry me in
anything else--_no_, Gerie; _don't_ look like that! because he likes it,
and I may as well do _something_ to please him while I can. I am sorry
for Edward, but he has brought it upon himself."
"Johanna is jesting, sister!" Miss Almeria explained kindly. "We
consider Edward an exceptionally fortunate man, Johanna!"
"You are dears, both of you!" Miss Johanna's eyes softened, and she
spoke in a different tone from her usual half-gibing utterance. "I am
very happy, girls, and very thankful, as I ought to be. And--don't tell,
but, when we come back, I am going to _try_ not to be peculiar any more.
Only everybody will say I was changed at marriage!" she added ruefully.
"Do you suppose Cyrus will think me all the more peculiar for trying not
to be?" (As a matter of fact, this is precisely what Cyrus did think;
but this is to anticipate.)
It was a very quiet wedding, only the few old friends who had stood by
Johanna Ross through all her wayward years, and one new one. Mr.
Jordano, the bride insisted, must be present. She felt like a criminal
in not having a Real Wedding for Cyrus, but Edward could not abide
weddings; you would think he had had a dozen already. The least they
could do was to have it written up in style, and that this Delicious
Creature was sure to do. Mr. Jordano did not know that he was a
Delicious Creature, but he did know that Opportunity beckoned, and he
rose to it. Fortunately the wedding took place the day before the weekly
appearance of the _Centinel_, and Cyrus read over its breakfast with
mingled feelings, of the Event which only a "select party of choice
spirits," as Mr. Jordano put it, had the privilege of attending. (Not
that Mrs. Sharpe wondered; far from it. Marrying at that age, Johanna
Ross naturally would not wish to have any more witnesses than were
absolutely necessary: Mrs. Sharpe for one was thankful to be spared such
a spectacle.) The Scribe had been one of the fortunate few bidden to
attend the nuptials of Miss Johanna Ross, a lady who, though long absent
from our midst, was admired and revered by all who had the privilege of
her acquaintance, and our highly-esteemed and justly celebrated fellow
citizen and jurist, the Hon. Edward Peters, Justice of the Supreme
Bench. The ceremony had taken place in the elegant and commodious
mansion of the late Dr. Ross, now the abode of his charming and talented
daughter, Miss Katharine Ross, whose reputation as an equestrienne of
the highest order had spread far beyond the limits of Cyrus and
environs. The spacious parlors of Ross House were tastily adorned with
ferns, emerald moss (to which, it appeared, the bride was specially
addicted) and violets, the latter in such profusion as to lade the
ambient air with perfumes of Araby the blest. The bride, a superb
brunette, wore a confection of moss-green velvet with gold garniture,
and resembled, if Italio might take the liberty, a rare jewel in an
emerald chalice. (Mr. Jordano had written "cup" at first; but he liked
to murmur his copy aloud as he wrote; and "cup-pup-pup" struck harshly
on his ear. He was in sensitive mood; a tail seemed to wag in the corner
of his eye. "Chalice" came as a happy and satisfying inspiration.)
"The bride (we read over the shoulder of Cyrus, which is letting its
coffee grow cold!) "was attended only by her niece, Miss Katharine Ross,
who was indeed a vision for the Poet's eye. Simply gowned in filmy
white, and which enclosed as fair a form as ever endowed nymph or grace,
the effect was _distingué_ beyond the simple pen of the Scribe to
relate. The ceremony (with ring) was performed by the Reverend Timothy
Chanter, who appeared in full regalia of black silk, and was accompanied
by Mrs. Chanter in brown poplin with self trimmings of velvet. The
Misses Bygood wore flowered silk, with a profusion of priceless lace,
and were as ever the peers of grace and beauty; no eye could gaze on
them unmoved." (Mr. Jordano sighed heavily after writing this, and
murmured, "Almeria, to thee!" in unconscious imitation of Sir Edward
Bulwer Lytton.) "Madam Flynt was sumptuously attired in lilac brocade
and diamonds, Miss Croly in purple silk. Mr. Marshall Mallow, the genial
Mine Host of the Mallow House, and the humble Scribe who pens this
tribute from a feeling heart, made up a party which must ever esteem
itself fortunate in having been chosen to participate in an Event which,
though characterized by chaste severity and exclusiveness, will ever
dwell in the mind as an Acme of elegance. At the conclusion of the
ceremony, exquisite refreshments were served in receptacles of priceless
porcelain and cut glass. It was whispered in the ear of the Scribe that
everything was made in the house. Cyrus is, indeed, fortunate in
possessing a culinary artist of such dimensions as Miss Sarepta Darwin,
to whom, if Italio were rightly informed, is due the credit of the truly
superlative repast enjoyed by the guests."
Sarepta read this next morning, and sniffed.
"What did the man expect?" she asked of Kitty, who had brought the paper
out to her. "What d'he think I'd been doin' for forty years? The idea!"
but she cut the item out none the less, and pasted it in her scrapbook.
So Judge Peters won the lady of his faithful heart, and carried her off
for a summer in Europe: (there was a Europe in those days, not yet
become a place of blood and tears!) "And now," said Cyrus hopefully,
"perhaps Kitty will come and live with us!"
To be exact, it was only the Chanter girls and Mr. Mallow who said this.
Madam Flynt and the Misses Bygood knew better; so did the bride, who
checked her Edward's affectionate hope, expressed to Kitty at parting,
with "Nonsense, Ned! Kitty will stay in her own house. She would be a
great fool if she didn't."
Kitty cried a good deal after her aunt left. She missed the brusque,
incisive speech, the odd, kindly ways. The house seemed very lonely,
very silent; though of course it was just as dear. She was so glad they
were going to be happy together, those two dear people! There would be
no more violets now, she supposed. Ridiculous that here an absurd
crystal tear dropped on the shining leaf of the orange-tree Kitty was
watering: tears came so easily nowadays, when she was not really sad at
all, only--only----
_If Tom were really married, what did anything else matter?_ If he were!
Kitty did not actually believe it. There were many people who did not
write letters; but to marry, without a word or a line, after--she caught
her breath, seeing his face as he took leave of her that day, so
long--oh, so long ago!
"I shall find you here when I come back, Kitty? You--you'll wait----"
Some one came in: next moment he was gone. That was all. _If he were
really married_----
The curious thing was, songs came as easily as tears. She had not sung
since her mother's death, till just lately; but now, for all her
sadness, which of course was not really sadness, song bubbled within her
like a fountain. "The Duke of Lee" was on her lips all day long: it
possessed her; she could not drive it away. She tried to do so by a
severe course of scales, singing her _solfeggi_ twice a day religiously;
taking up, too, the Italian arias and _canzonetti_ that her mother had
loved to hear her sing, and the Scotch ballads she used to croon to her
father when he came in from a long drive and sat on the leather sofa
before the sitting-room fire. There was nothing wonderful about Kitty's
voice, but it was very sweet, and had a harp-like quality that thrilled
one strangely somehow.
She set herself a stiff little course of reading for the evening, when
of course she would miss Aunt Johanna most. Plato to begin with; she had
always meant to read Plato; then she would take Herodotus, and Josephus,
and all the things she had never "got round to." It would be wonderful!
she thought. If she kept at it steadily, by the time she was fifty, she
might really begin to know just a scrap, "instead of being a Pit of
Ignorance, Pilot, as I always have been; just like you, my lamb; heigh
ho!
"'And she shall have silks and satins for to wear,
And a coach and six for to take the air----'
"_I will not_ sing that again to-day!"
You see, Kitty did not know, could not possibly know, psychical
processes being in their present veiled condition, that currents were
flowing, wireless messages flashing, between her subliminal self and
another; that Tom Lee, striding up and down the deck of his steamer, was
crying all day long in his heart, "Kitty! Kitty! Kitty! I am coming!
_Wait for me!_" Had "Psychic Wireless, Unlimited," informed Tom that
there were other aspirants for the hand he had so confidently thought
his? Who can tell? Certainly, he told Kitty afterward, the voyage was
"H. E. Double," and ten times a day he thought of jumping overboard and
swimming the Pacific Ocean, as likely to make better time.
John Tucker emerged from the harness-room, in leather apron and gloves.
"It's good to hear you singin' round the place, Miss Kitty," he said:
"it is so! I enjoy it, and I expect they do as well, if they could
speak."
He nodded toward Dan and Pilot, who were certainly pictures of
attention, as they stood with shining eyes, ears pricked forward, and
delicate nostrils dilated.
"Bless them!" said Kitty. "It's sugar they want, the darlings, not
singing. Pilot, stop! You cannot get your head into my pocket, you
greedy cherub, and it is Dan's turn, anyhow. Here, Dan! Don't slobber,
darling! Eat like a gentleman, because you know you are one, a Perfect
Pattern, except for just a shade of gluttony. Now, Pilot!"
John Tucker stood in the doorway, gazing at her with delight. She was
the "very moral" of a picture that hung in his own sitting-room; a steel
engraving, neatly framed. It was labeled "Thoroughbred," and showed a
fair girl patting a noble horse. John Tucker had seen it in the window
of a print shop in the city and had bought it, refusing steadfastly to
tell his Mary what it cost. Miss Kitty and Pilot might have sat for the
two portraits, he maintained, except for Pilot's being black, which was
all a Pilot colt _could_ be.
The horses fed and petted--not to their hearts' content, but as near it
as the passing nature of time would allow--John Tucker turned back into
the harness-room with a backward jerk of his head which said as plainly
as one of Pilot's gestures, "Aren't you coming to see _me_ now?"
Kitty followed him into the pleasant little leather-scented room and
perched on the arm of a chair as was her wont.
"What was that tune you was singin' just now, Miss Kitty?" asked John.
"It is called the 'Duke of Lee,'" said Kitty. "It's an old English song,
John, and there's a dance that goes with it."
"Didn't your Ma used to sing it now and then? 'Pears to me I remember of
her singin' it."
"Of course she did! You clever John Tucker to remember! She used to sing
it when I was a tiny tot, and I used to dance. Tommy and I," she added
bravely.
John Tucker nodded a slow confirmation. "I remember!" he said. "I
ricollect one day--summer day it was, later in the season than this, and
warm--I ricollect your Ma settin' on the kitchen steps, an' Mis' Lee
settin' beside her. I couldn't but notice what a pictur' they made, kind
of showin' of each other off, as you might say. What I mean, your Ma was
dark, you understand, leastways her hair and eyes, though she had that
kind of soft whiteness that you'd thought there was a light inside, if
you see what I mean, Miss Kitty----"
Kitty nodded silently.
"An' Mis' Lee," John Tucker went on, "was more like a red and white
setter pup. No offense to her mem'ry in sayin' so, for she sure was a
handsome lady, and I thought the world of her--and Tommy, too!"
John Tucker's eyes were bent studiously on the buckle he was polishing.
"But what I mean, there they sot, and honest, Miss Kitty, I never go by
that kitchen door but I see them two--well, beautiful women is what I
would say--settin' there side by each, and your Ma singin' that song,
and you two little shavers dancin'. I--gorry! I wish't they was all
back, Miss Kitty."
John Tucker dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and gave a
single portentous sniff.
"Dear John!" Kitty's eyes were brimming, too. She stroked John's blue
shirt sleeve very tenderly.
"Dear John Tucker, I am so glad you remember. It's a pleasant picture to
remember, isn't it, John?"
"You bet it is!"
John Tucker very gruff with himself, and polishing away like mad.
"Mis' Lee, she's gone, too, ain't she, Miss Kitty? Too bad!"
"Yes, John, she died three years ago. But Tom is alive," she added
cheerfully, "and doing finely, I believe. Don't you want me to sing your
own song for you, John? The one you taught me when I was a tiny? I have
plenty of time before I go for Mr. Chanter. Do you believe Podasokus
will ever get well, John Tucker, dear?"
"No'm, I do not; not as long as you and Pilot are handy by!" John Tucker
looked up with a twinkle. "What I mean, 'tisn't to be expected, though I
don't suppose Mr. Chanter senses how it is. That hoss ought to be put
away, Miss Kitty. He ain't fit to drive, no more than an old buff'ler
that the moths has got into it. Yes'm, I'd be tickled to death to hear
that song, if you feel like singin' it. It's a long time since I've
heard that song, Miss Kitty."
"I know, John! I haven't sung it since--I haven't sung at all since
Mother went, till just these last few days. I don't know why I sing now,
but somehow--now listen, John Tucker!"
Still perched on the arm of the chair, Kitty lifted up her voice and
sang "Cockles and Mussels" till the stable rang with silver sound, and
Dan and Pilot stamped and whinnied with excitement, while even Old
Crummles, dozing in the farthest stall, raised his sleepy head and
wondered what was going on. As for John Tucker, he wept with pleasure,
openly and unashamed; those honest blue eyes of his were always ready
for tears when he was moved.
"That's great!" he cried. "That certainly is great, Miss Kitty. I thank
you for that!" he flourished a clean blue cotton handkerchief, and blew
his nose sonorously. "You weren't more than knee-high to a grasshopper
first time you sang that to old John Tucker. Your Ma sang it, too!" he
added. "I remember of her singin' it that same day we was speakin' of.
Miss Kitty----"
"Yes, John Tucker!" as he stopped abruptly.
"I was thinkin' I'd take Crummles to the station this afternoon. He
ain't been out to-day."
"Yes, John Tucker. What else were you going to say?"
John gave a short embarrassed laugh. "I dunno as I ought to say it, Miss
Kitty. Wal! if you will have it--there was something Mis' Ross said that
day has stayed by me, kind of. Something--what I mean--well, 'twas this
way. Those two ladies was talkin' together, and I no business to hear
what they was sayin', but yet I couldn't _but_ hear, bein' as I was
holdin' the pony. Old Rosy Nanty! he was gettin' on in years, and he
liked to lay down once in a while, and take a roll. He didn't mean no
harm, he'd just antic a mite. So they was talkin', 'bout the children:
they were both wropped up in 'em. Mis' Lee, she said something about
young uns learnin' to know all sorts, kind of mix in, like, with folks
in general: thought 'twas good for 'em and like that. And your Ma, she
bust right out: 'No!' she says: 'my Kitty shall never know anything but
what is lovely!' she says: and she went on, quoted the 'postle Paul and
like that. I never forgot it. It kind o' sunk in. You weren't never to
touch, or know, or think of, anything that wasn't just _so_, just--well,
lovely, and good report, and that. You understand, Miss Kitty?"
Kitty nodded brightly. "I understand, John Tucker. Go on!"
"Wal! I dunno--I set here sometimes and mull over that, Miss Kitty, and
wonder if we're doin' just what's right by your Ma. There! I guess it's
got to come right out. I thought the first of it, takin' Madam Flynt for
her ride and like that, 'twould be all right: of course you wouldn't be
let to go to no trains nor nothin' of that sort. But come to see you
kitin' round with tag rag and bobtail--what I mean,--I dunno as your Ma
would _like_ it, Miss Kitty. Of course 'tisn't for me to say, but----"
Kitty's eyes were dancing. She slipped from the arm of the chair, and
stood before John Tucker, accusatory forefinger leveled.
"John Tucker," she said slowly, "you--are--a--snob!"
"Now, Miss Kitty, don't you----"
"A snob!" Kitty repeated with withering emphasis. "I know perfectly well
what you mean. You saw me pick up poor old Mrs. Flanagan and take her
home. John Tucker, Mrs. Flanagan is eighty if she is a day; and that
basket weighed half a ton, I am _sure_. Would you have let her carry it,
if you had been prancing past with Pilot? I ask you, John Tucker!"
John Tucker looked uncomfortable.
"Mis' Flanagan has four children of her own," he said, "and ten
grandchildren. She'd oughter let them carry her baskets."
"Yes, but they weren't there, and I was. _Try_ to have a _little_ sense,
John! as for the children on Saturday mornings--Yes! I saw you look at
us, you snobbish John; you were coming out of Adams's: you gave us a
Gorgon glare, and I was ashamed of you! As for the children, they are my
joy and delight. I wouldn't miss the Saturday morning drive for
_anything_, John Tucker. The lambs! didn't you see how they were
enjoying it?"
"I saw they was awful dirty! Took me 'most an hour to get the wagon
clean, all the mud they tracked in."
"They had been playing in the mud. What should they be doing on Saturday
morning? I don't suppose you noticed," she added demurely, "that one of
the boys was named Tucker, did you, John?"
"I did," said John Tucker grimly. "I told him I'd lick him out of his
boots, if ever he took such a liberty again."
"Are you sure it was Jimmy who took the liberty, John?"
Kitty spoke very quietly, but there was a ring of steel in her voice.
"There!" said John Tucker, describing the scene to Sarepta that night.
"If it wasn't her Pa, lookin' straight at me, and lettin' me have it
between the eyes, call me a juggins!"
"I will!" said Sarepta. "It's what you are! The idea!"
Kitty's vexation passed like summer lightning before John Tucker's
abject penitence.
"I know!" she said, cheering and soothing him at once. "I know, dear
John! It's all your goodness and faithfulness, and I love you for it.
But don't you see, I cannot 'sit on a cushion and sew a fine seam, and
feast upon strawberries, sugar and cream.' That is what blessed Mother
would have liked for me, because she _could_, you know, and because I
was her baby, and--oh, I understand so well! But I am a different kind,
you see, John. I am mostly Ross, I suppose, at least, so Aunt Johanna
says; and I don't like cushions, and I'm afraid I am not _very_ fond of
sewing fine seams. When one isn't driving or walking, it seems rather
terrible not to be reading, don't you think?"
"Yes, Miss!" said John Tucker, submissively. His reading was confined to
the _State Farmer_, but never again would he differ from his idol in any
particular.
"And as for what is lovely, and so on--" Kitty's eyes and voice softened
to the look and tone that were specially for her mother--"I think--John,
would it be good for Pilot to live entirely on oats, and to trot always
on a perfectly level State road? No? I thought not! And if he never did
anything but speed in a trotting sulky, you wouldn't say he was being of
any great use in the world? No, I thought not! And now it is half-past
ten, John Tucker, and if you don't put Pilot into the beach wagon, I
must."