KITTY'S FRIENDS.
"How have I had the misfortune to offend you?" said Rupert, in a voice
from which he could not banish irony as completely as he would have
liked to do.
"You said so yourself," replied Kitty, facing him with the dignity of a
small princess. "You said that you were not my friend now."
"When did I make that statement?" said Rupert, lifting his eyebrows.
"Last night. And I knew it. You are not kind as you used to be. It does
not matter to me at all; only I felt that I did not like to keep these
things--and I brought them back."
"And what am I to do with them?" said Rupert, approaching the sofa and
looking at the untidy little heap. He gave a subdued laugh, which
offended Kitty dreadfully.
"I don't see anything to laugh at," she said.
"Neither do I." But the smile still trembled on his finely-cut mouth.
"What did you mean me to do with these things?" he asked. "These are
trifles: why don't you throw them into the fire if you don't value
them?"
"They are not all trifles; and I did value them before you came to see
us this time," said Kitty, with a lugubriousness which ought to have
convinced him of her sincerity. "There are some bangles, and a cup and
saucer, and two books; and there is the chain that you sent me by Mr.
Luttrell in the autumn."
"Ah, that chain," said Vivian, and then he took it up and weighed it
lightly in his hand. "I have never seen you wear it. I thought at first
that you had got it on last night: but my eyes deceived me. My sight is
not so good as it used to be. Really, Miss Heron, you make me ashamed of
my trumpery gifts: pray take them away, and let me give you something
prettier on your next birthday for old acquaintance sake."
"No, indeed!" said Kitty.
"And why not? Because I don't treat you precisely as I did when you were
twelve? You really would not like it if I did. No, I shall be seriously
offended if you do not take these things away and say no more about
them. It would be perfectly impossible for me to take them back; and I
think you will see--afterwards--that you should not have asked me to do
so."
The accents of that calmly inflexible voice were terrible to Kitty. He
turned to the window and looked out, but, becoming impatient of the
silence, walked back to her again, and saw that her face had grown
white, and was quivering as if she had received a blow. Her eyes were
fixed upon the sofa, and her fingers held the chain which he had quietly
placed within them; but it was evident that she was doing battle with
herself to prevent the tears from falling. Rupert felt some remorse: and
then hardened himself by a remembrance of the glances that had been
exchanged between her and Hugo in that very room the night before.
"I am old enough to be your father, you know," he began, gravely. This
statement was not quite true, but it was true enough for conversational
purposes. "I have sent you presents on your birthday since you were a
very little girl, and I hope I may always do so. There is no need for
you to reject them, because I think it well to remember that you are not
a child any longer, but a young lady who has 'come out,' and wears long
frocks, and does her hair very elaborately," he said, casting a smiling
glance at Kitty's carefully-frizzled head. "I certainly do not wish to
cease to be friends with--all of you; and I hope you will not drive me
away from a house where I have been accustomed to forget the cares of
the world a little, and find pleasant companionship and relaxation."
"Oh, Mr. Vivian!" said Kitty, in a loud whisper. The suggestion that she
had power to drive him away seemed almost impious. She felt completely
crushed.
"Don't think any more about it," said Rupert, kindly, if
condescendingly. "I never wished to be less of a friend to you than I
was when you lived in Gower-street; but you must remember that you are a
great deal altered from the little girl that I used to know."
Kitty could not speak; she stooped and began to gather the presents
again into her apron. Vivian came and helped her. He could not forbear
giving her hand a little kindly pat when he had finished, as if he had
been dealing with a child. But the playful caress, if such it might be
called, had no effect on Kitty's sore and angry feelings. She was
terribly ashamed of herself now: she could hardly bear to remember his
calmly superior tone, his words of advice, which seemed to place her on
a so much lower footing than himself.
But in a day or two this feeling wore off. He was so kindly and friendly
in manner, that she was emboldened to laugh at the recollection of the
tone in which he had alluded to her elaborately-dressed hair and long
dresses, and to devise a way of surprising him. She came down one day to
afternoon tea in an old school-girlish dress of blue serge, rather short
about the ankles, a red and white pinafore, and a crimson sash. Her hair
was loose about her neck, and had been combed over her forehead in the
fashion in which she wore it in her childish days. Thus attired, she
looked about fourteen years old, and the shy way in which she glanced at
the company from under her eyelashes, added to the impression of extreme
youth. To carry out the character, she held a battledore and shuttlecock
in her hand.
"Kitty, are you rehearsing for a fancy ball?" said Mrs. Heron.
"No, Isabel. I only thought I would try to transform myself into a
little girl again, and see what it felt like. Do I look very young
indeed?"
"You look about twelve. You absurd child!"
"Is the battledore for effect, or are you going to play a game with it?"
asked Rupert, who had been surveying her with cold criticism in his
eyes.
"For effect, of course. Don't you think it is a very successful
attempt?" she said, looking up at him saucily.
He made no answer. Elizabeth wanted the tea-kettle at that moment, and
he moved to fetch it. Hugo Luttrell, however, who was paying a call at
the house, was ready enough with a reply.
"It could not be more successful," he said, looking at her admiringly.
"I suppose"--in a lowered tone--"that you looked like this in the
school-room. I am glad those days are over, at any rate."
"I am not," said Kitty, helping herself to bread and butter. "I should
like them all over again--lessons and all." She stole a glance at
Rupert, but his still face betrayed no consciousness of her remark. "I
am going to keep up my character. I am going to play at battledore and
shuttlecock with the boys in the dining-room. Who will come, too? _Qui
m'aime me suit._"
"Then I will be the first to follow," said Hugo, in her ear.
She pouted and drank her tea, glancing half-reluctantly toward Rupert.
But he would not heed.
"I will come, too," said Elizabeth, relieving the awkwardness of a
rather long pause. "I always like to see you play. Kitty is as light as
a bird," she added to Mr. Vivian, who bowed and looked profoundly
uninterested.
Nevertheless, in a few minutes he found the drawing-room so dull without
the young people, that he, too, descended to see what was going on. He
heard the sound of counting in breathless voices as he drew near the
drawing-room. "Ninety-eight, ninety-nine, three hundred. One, two,
three----"
"Kitty and Mr. Luttrell have kept up to three hundred and three, Mr.
Vivian!" cried one of the boys as he entered the room.
Mr. Vivian joined the spectators. It was a pretty sight. Kitty, with her
floating locks, flushed face, trim, light figure, and unerring accuracy
of eye, was well measured against Hugo's lithe grace and dexterity. The
two went on until eight hundred and twenty had been reached; then the
shuttlecock fell to the ground. Kitty had glanced aside and missed her
aim.
"You must try, now, Mr. Vivian," she said, advancing towards him,
battledore in hand, and smiling triumphantly in his face.
"No, thank you," said Rupert, who had been shading his eyes with one
hand, as if the light of the lamps had tried them: "I could not see."
"Could you not? Oh, you are short-sighted, perhaps. Ah! there go Hugo
and Johnny. This is better than being grown-up, I think. Am I like the
little girl that you used to know in Gower-street now, Mr. Vivian?"
It was perhaps her naming Hugo so familiarly that caused Rupert to
reply, with a smile that was more cutting than reproof would have
been:--
"I prefer the little girl in Gower-street still."
From the colour that instantly overspread her face and neck, he saw that
she was hurt or offended--he did not know which. She left his side
immediately, and plunged into the game with renewed ardour. She played
until Hugo left the house about seven o'clock; and then she rushed up to
her room and bolted herself in with unnecessary violence. She came down
to dinner in a costume as different as possible from the one which she
had worn in the afternoon. Her dress was of some shining white stuff,
very long, very much trimmed, cut very low at the neck; her hair was
once more touzled, curled and pinned, in its most elaborate fashion; and
her gold necklet and bracelets were only fit for a dinner-party. It is
to be feared that Rupert Vivian did not admire her taste in dress. If
she had worn white cotton it would had pleased him better.
There was a wall between them once more. She was more conscious of it
than he was, but he did not perceive that something was wrong. He saw
that she would not look at him, would not speak to him; he supposed that
he had offended her. He himself was aware of an increasing feeling of
dissatisfaction--whether with her, or with her circumstances, he could
not define--and this feeling found expression in a sentence which he
addressed to her two days after the game of battledore and shuttlecock.
Hugo had been to the house again, and had been even less guarded than
usual in his love-making. Kitty meant to put a stop to it sooner or
later; but she did not quite know how to do it (not having had much
experience in these matters, in spite of the coquettishness which Rupert
attributed to her), and also she did not want to do it just at present,
because of her instinctive knowledge of the fact that it annoyed Mr.
Vivian. She was too much of a child to know that she was playing with
edged tools.
So she allowed Hugo a very long hand-clasp when he said good-bye, and
held a whispered consultation with him at the door in a confidential
manner, which put Rupert very much out of temper. Then she came back to
the drawing-room fire, laughing a little, with an air of pretty triumph.
Rupert was leaning against the mantelpiece; no one else was in the room.
Kitty knelt down on the rug, and warmed her hands at the fire.
"We have such a delightful secret, Hugo and I," she said, brightly. "You
would never guess what it was. Shall I tell it to you?"
"No," he answered, shortly.
"No?" She lifted her eyebrows in astonishment, and then shrugged her
shoulders. "You are not very polite to me, Mr. Vivian!" she said,
half-playfully, half-pettishly.
"I do not wish to share any secret that you and Mr. Hugo Luttrell may
have between you," said Rupert, with emphasis.
Kitty's face changed a little. "Don't you like him?" she said, in a
rather timid voice.
"Before I answer I should like to know whether you are engaged to marry
him," said Mr. Vivian.
"Certainly not. I never dreamt of such a thing. You ought not to ask
such a question," said Kitty, turning scarlet.
"I suppose I ought not. I beg your pardon. But I thought it was the
case."
"Why should you think so?" said Kitty, turning her face away from him.
"You would have heard about it, you know--and besides--nobody ever
thought of such a thing."
"Excuse me: Mr. Luttrell seems to have thought of it," said Rupert, with
rather an angry laugh.
"What Mr. Luttrell thinks of is no business of yours," said Kitty.
"You cannot deny it then!" exclaimed Vivian, with a mixture of
bitterness and sarcastic triumph in his tone.
She made no answer. He could not see her face, but the way in which she
was twisting her fingers together spoke of some agitation. He tried to
master himself; but he was under the empire of an emotion of which he
himself had not exactly grasped the meaning nor estimated the power. He
walked to the window and back again somewhat uncertainly; then paused at
about two yards' distance from her kneeling figure, and addressed her in
a voice which he kept carefully free from any trace of excitement.
"I have no right to speak, I know," he said, "and, if I were not so much
older than yourself, or if I had not promised to be your friend, Kitty,
I would keep silence. I want you to be on your guard with that man. He
is not the sort of man that you ought to encourage, or whom you would
find any happiness in loving."
"I thought it was not considered generous for one man to blacken
another's character behind his back," said Kitty, quickly.
"Well, you are right, it is not. If I had put myself into rivalry with
Hugo Luttrell, of course, I should have to hold my tongue. But as I am
only an outsider--an old friend who takes a kindly interest in the child
that he has seen grow up--I think I am justified in saying, Kitty, that
I do not consider young Luttrell worthy of you."
The calm, unimpassioned tones produced their usual effect on poor Kitty.
She felt thoroughly crushed. And yet there was a rising anger in her
heart. What reason had Rupert Vivian to hold himself so far aloof from
her? Was he not Percival's friend? Why should he look down from such
heights of superiority upon Percival's sister?
"I speak to you in this way," Rupert went on, with studied quietness,
"because you have less of the guardianship usually given to girls of
your age than most girls have. Mrs. Heron is, I know, exceedingly kind
and amiable, but she has her own little ones to think of, and then she,
too, is young. Miss Murray, although sensible and right-thinking in
every way, is too near your own age to be a guide for you. Percival is
away. Therefore, you must let me take an elder brother's place to you
for once, and warn you when I see that you are in danger."
Kitty had risen from her knees, and was now standing, with her face
still averted, and her lips hidden by a feather fan which she had taken
from the mantelpiece. There was a sharper ring in her voice as she
replied.
"You seem to think I need warning. You seem to think I cannot take care
of myself. You have reminded me once or twice lately that I was a woman
now and not a child. Pray, allow me the woman's privilege of choosing
for myself."
"I am sorry to have displeased you," said Vivian, gravely. "Am I to
understand that my warning comes too late?"
There was a moment's pause before she answered coldly:--
"Quite too late."
"Your choice has fallen upon Hugo Luttrell?"
Kitty was stripping the feathers ruthlessly from her fan. She answered
with an agitated little laugh:
"That is not a fair question. You had better ask him."
"I think I do not need," said Rupert. Then, in a low and rather ironical
tone, he added, "Pray accept my congratulations." She bowed her head
with a scornful smile, and let him leave the room without another word.
What was the use of speaking? The severance was complete between them
now.
They had quarrelled before, but Kitty felt, bitterly enough, that now
they were not quarrelling. She had built up a barrier between them which
he was the last man to tear down. He would simply turn his back upon her
now and go his own way. And she did not know how to call him back. She
felt vaguely that her innocent little wiles were lost upon him. She
might put on her prettiest dresses, and sing her sweetest songs, but
they would never cause him to linger a moment longer by her side than
was absolutely necessary. He had given her up.
She felt, too, with a great swelling of heart, that her roused pride had
made her imply what was not true. He would always think that she was
engaged to Hugo Luttrell. She had, at least, made him understand that
she was prepared to accept Hugo when he proposed to her. And all the
world knew that Hugo meant to propose--Kitty herself knew it best of
all.
The day came on which Rupert was to return to London. Scarcely a word
had been interchanged between him and Kitty since the conversation which
has been recorded. She thought, as she stole furtive glances towards him
from time to time, that he looked harassed, and even depressed, but in
manner he was more cheerful than it was his custom to be. When the time
came for saying good-bye, he held out his hand to her with a kindly
smile.
"Come, Kitty," he said, "let us be friends."
Her heart gave a wild leap which seemed almost to suffocate her; she
looked up into his face with changing colour and eager eyes.
"I am sorry," she began, with a little gasp. "I did not mean all I said
the other day, and I wanted to tell you----"
To herself it seemed as if these words were a tremendous self-betrayal;
to Vivian they were less than nothing--commonplace sentences enough;
uttered in a frightened, childish tone.
"Did you not mean it all?" he said, giving her hand a friendly pressure.
"Well, never mind; neither did I. We are quits, are we not? I will not
obtrude my advice upon you again, and you must forgive me for having
already done so. Good-bye, my dear child; I trust you will be happy."
"I shall never be happy," said Kitty, withdrawing her hand from his,
"never, never, never!" And then she burst into tears and rushed out of
the room.
Vivian looked after her with a slightly puzzled expression, but did not
attempt to call her back.
It was not a very favourable day for Hugo's suit, and he was received
that afternoon in anything but a sunshiny mood by Miss Heron. For almost
the first time she snubbed him unmercifully, but he had been treated
with so much graciousness on all previous occasions that the snubs did
not produce very much impression upon him. And, finding himself alone
with her for a few minutes, he was rash enough to make the venture upon
which he had set his heart, without considering whether he had chosen
the best moment for the experiment or not. Accordingly, he failed. A few
brief words passed between them, but the few were sufficient to convince
Hugo Luttrell that he had never won Kitty Heron's heart. To his infinite
surprise and mortification, she refused his offer of marriage most
decidedly.