Outpost

by Jane G. Austin

CHAPTER XXX.

KITTY IN THE WOODS.

LEFT to his own guidance, Capt. Karl would have asked no better life than to follow Dora about the farm, or fulfil for her such duties as she could not conveniently perform for herself. Nor was he ever troubled, as a man of less sweet and genial temper might have been, by fears, lest, in thus attending upon his cousin's pleasure, he sacrificed somewhat of manly dignity and the awful supremacy of the sterner sex. "Dora knows" had become to Karl a sufficient explanation of every thing, either in the character or the administration of the girl-farmer, however mysterious it might seem to others; and to defer to Dora's judgment and wishes was perhaps pleasanter and safer in the eyes of the young man than to attempt to consult his own.

But, pleasant though this life might be to both, it came by no means within the scope of Dora's plans; and, so soon as the family were thoroughly settled at Outpost, Karl found himself urged by irresistible pressure to the pursuance of his medical studies.

Five miles from Outpost, in the youthful town of Greenfield, was already established a respectable physician of the old school, who, troubled with certain qualms and doubts as to the ability of the system he had practised so many years to bear the scrutiny of the new lights thrown upon it by the progress of science, was very glad to secure the services, and even advice, of a young man educated in the best medical schools of the Eastern States; and not only consented to take Karl into his office as student until the nominal term of his studies should have expired, but offered him a partnership in his practice so soon as he should receive his diploma.

The arrangement was accordingly made; and every morning after breakfast, Karl, often with a rueful face, often with an audible protest, mounted his horse, and rode to Greenfield, leaving the household at Outpost to a long day of various occupations until his return at night.

Sometimes Dora, upon Max, her little Indian pony, would accompany him a few miles, or as far as his road led toward the scene of her own labors; but no Spartan dame or Roman matron could more sternly have resisted the young man's frequent entreaties to be allowed to accompany her farther than the point at which their roads diverged.

"No, sir! You to your work, and I to mine. Suppose I were to neglect the farm, and come to sit in Dr. Gershom's office all day," argued the fair young moralist, but found herself rather disconcerted by her pupil's gleeful laugh, as he replied,—

"Good, good! Try it once, do; and let me see if it would be so very bad. I think I could forgive you."

"Suppose, then, instead of arguing any more with you, I jump Max over this brook, and leave you where you are?" said Dora, a little vexed; and, suiting the action to the word, she was off before her cousin could remonstrate.

In the evening of the day when this little scene occurred, Karl, upon his return home, found Dora seated with Sunshine upon the grass under the great chestnut-tree.

"A letter for you, you horrid tyrant!" said he, taking one from his pocket, and tossing it into her lap.

"She isn't; and you are a naughty old Karlo to say such names!" cried Sunshine, flashing her blue eyes indignantly upon the laughing face of the young man.

"Such names as what, Dolce?" asked he, jumping from his horse, and trying to catch the child, who evaded his grasp, and replied with dignity,—

"It isn't any consequence, Karlo. She isn't it, and you know she isn't."

"But it is of consequence; for I don't know what it is she isn't.
Please tell me, mousey; won't you?"

"She isn't a tireout, you know she isn't, then. You sha'n't laugh!
Dora, shall Karlo laugh at me? shall he?"

"No, dear, he won't; but you mustn't be a cross little girl if he does. Now run to the house, and tell Aunt Kitty that Karlo has come home, and see if tea is ready."

The child put up her lips for a kiss, bestowed a glance of dignified severity upon the offender, and walked towards the house with measured steps for a little distance; then, with the frolicsome caprice of a kitten, made a little caper in the air, and danced on, singing, in her clear, sweet voice,—"Dear, dear, what can the matter be? Karlo can't stay from here!"

"Funny child!" exclaimed the object of the stave. "A true little woman, with her loves and spites. Who is the letter from, Dolo?"

"Mr. Brown," said Dora, slowly folding it, and rising from her seat under the tree to return to the house.

"Aha! Seems to me the parson is not so attentive as he used to be.
Have you and he fallen out?"

"No, indeed! we are the best of friends; and, in proof of it, this letter is to say he is coming to make a little visit at Outpost, if convenient to us."

"And is it convenient?" asked Karl somewhat curtly.

"Certainly; or, at least, we can make it so. Either you can take him into your room, or Kitty can give him hers, and come into mine."

Karl said nothing; but, as they walked toward the house, his face remained unusually serious, and he seemed to be thinking deeply. Dora glanced at him once or twice, and at last asked abruptly,—

"Don't you want Mr. Brown to come, Karl?"

"Certainly, certainly, if you do. It is your own house, and you have a right to your own guests," replied the young man coldly.

Dora colored indignantly.

"For shame, Karl! Did I ever say a thing like that to you in the old house? and would you have been pleased if I had?"

"No, Dolo; and no again. But you never were a selfish fool, like me.
Yes, I am glad Mr. Brown is coming; and I think I will stay at
Greenfield while he is here. Then he can have my room."

"No, no: that won't do at all. He comes to see us all; and, of course, we can manage a room without turning you out. Kitty can come into mine"—

"Dora, what is the day of the month?"

"The 17th, I believe."

"Yes, the 17th of August; and seven days more will bring the 24th of
August, Dora."

"Of course. Do you suppose he will be here by that time?" asked Dora unconsciously.

Karl looked at her in a sort of comic despair.

"Dora, if you were not the most utterly truthful of girls, you would be the most cruel of coquettes."

Dora's eyes rose swiftly to his face, read it for a moment, and then fell; while a sudden color dyed her own.

"You remember the date now?" asked Karl, almost mockingly. "See here!" and, taking from his pocket the memorandum-book of a year before, he opened it to a page bearing only the words,—

"Dora. Wednesday, Aug. 24."

"O Karl! I thought"—

"Stop, general! It is I who must be officer of the day on this occasion; and I forbid one word. I only wished to let you see that I have not forgotten. And so Mr. Brown is coming to see us?"

Again Dora glanced in perplexity at her cousin's face, but, this time, said not a word. Indeed, if she had wished, there was hardly time; for Kitty, appearing at the door, called,—

"Come, folks, come! Supper is ready and cooling."

"Coming, Kit-kat; and so is somebody else!" cried Karl.

"Somebody? Christmas is coming, I suppose; but not just yet. Did you hear that over at Greenfield?" replied Kitty, resting her hands on her brother's shoulders, and graciously receiving his kiss of greeting.

"It's not Christmas, but Parson Brown, who is coming; and I brought the news from Greenfield, although I did not know it until I arrived here," said Karl.

"Oh, a letter to Dora!" exclaimed Kitty quickly; and over her face, a moment before so bright, fell a scowling cloud, as she turned away, and busied herself with putting tea upon the table.

The meal was rather a silent one. Kitty was decidedly sulky, Dora thoughtful, and Karl a little bitter in his forced gayety; so that Sunshine, sensitive as a mimosa, ate but little, and, creeping close to Dora's side as they rose from the table, whispered,—

"What's the reason it isn't happier, Dora?"

"Aren't you happy, pet? Come and help me wash the teacups, and tell me how the kitties do to-day. Have you given them their milk?"

"I suppose you can do up these dishes without me. I got tea all alone; and I'd like to take my turn at a walk, or something pleasant, now," said Kitty crossly.

"Yes, do, Kitty. Dolce and I will do all that is to be done. It isn't much, because you always clear up as you go along," said Dora.

"There's no need of leaving every thing round, the way some folks do. Dolly, I do wish you'd set up your chair when you've done with it; and here's a mess of stuff"—

"Oh, don't throw it away, Kitty! It's my moss; and I'm going to make the pussies a house of stones, and have it grow all over moss. Dora said I might—Oh, oh! you're real naughty and ugly now, Kitty Windsor; and I sha'n't love you, and Argus shall bite you"—

But Kitty, with a contemptuous laugh, was already walking away, taking especial pains to tread upon the bits of bright moss as they lay scattered along the path.

"Dora, see! I do hate-no, I dislike-Kitty, just as hard as I can; and I can't get any more pretty moss"—

The child was crying passionately; and Dora left every thing to take her in her arms, and soothe and quiet her.

"Aunt Kitty is very neat and nice, little Sunshine; and the moss has earth clinging to it that might drop on the floor; and, besides, it takes up room, and we have so little,—hardly more than a mouse has in its nest. Oh! I never told you how I found a whole nest of mice in one of my slippers once,—six little tiny fellows, no bigger than your thumb; and every one with two little black, beady eyes, and a funny little tail."

"When was it? When you was a little teenty girl, like me? And was you afraid of the big mouse? What did you do with them?"

"Come, wipe the teaspoons, and I will tell you," said Dora, going back to her work; and, the April cloud having passed, the Sunshine was as bright as ever.

Karl, behind his newspaper, heard, saw, and understood the whole; and his mental comment might have seemed to some hearers but little connected with the scene that called it forth. It was simply,—

"Confound old Brown!"

Kitty, meantime, had walked rapidly towards the wood; but though the sunset-clouds were gorgeous, the lights and shadows of the forest rare and shifting, and the birds jubilant in their evening song, she saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, except the tumult in her own heart.

For, in the recesses of the wood, she paused, and throwing herself upon the ground, her face hidden upon her arms, gave way to a paroxysm of tears. Then, rising to her feet as suddenly, she paced up and down, her hands clinched before her, her black brows knit, and her mouth hard and sullen.

"I can't help it," muttered she: "it's the way I was made, and the way I shall die, I expect. I know I'm mean and hateful, and not half as good as she; but—Oh! it's too bad, too bad!-it's cruel, and I can't bear it! Mother loved me,—yes, she loved me best of every thing; and that hateful Pic killed her: whose fault was that but Dora's? Then Charlie-what does he care for me beside her? and, and— Well, perhaps Mr. Brown never would have noticed me at any rate; but, while she's round, he has no eyes for any one else. Even the child, and the cats, and the dog, and the horses, every living thing, loves her better than me; and now he's coming to court her right before my eyes! I wish I was dead! I wish I'd never been born! I'm not fit to live!"

She then threw herself again upon the ground, pressing her burning forehead against the cool moss, and grasping handfuls of the leaves rustling about her, while she wailed again and again,—

"I'm not fit to live,—not fit to live! Oh, I wish I was dead this minute! O God! if you love me any better than the rest, let me die, let me die this minute; for I am not fit to live."

"Then you cannot be fit to die, my child," said a voice above her; and, starting up, Kitty found herself confronted by a tall, fine-looking man, of about thirty years of age; his handsome face just now wearing an expression of sorrowful sternness as he fixed his eyes upon Kitty's, which fell before them.

"Mr. Brown!" stammered she.

"Yes, Kitty: my journey has been more rapid than I could have expected; and I arrived at Greenfield about an hour ago. Finding you so near, I took a horse, and came out here to-night. You did not hear me approach; and, when I saw you through the trees, I dismounted, and came to ask you what was the matter. I heard only your last words, and perhaps I should not have noticed them; yet, as a friend of you and yours, I will say again, Kitty, he who is not fit to live should feel himself most unfit to die, which is but to live with all the passions that made life unendurable made ours forever."

"Do you think so? If I should die now, should I feel just as badly when I came to in the other world?" asked Kitty with at startled look.

Mr. Brown smiled, as he answered,—

"I cannot think, Kitty, that your remorse or your sorrows can be as deep as you fancy. Perhaps they are only trifling vexations connected with outside matters, not rising from real wrong within. But you won't want to hear a sermon before I even reach the house: so come and show me the way there, and tell me how you all are."

"Dora is very well," said Kitty, so crisply, that Mr. Brown glanced at her sharply, and walked on in silence. Presently he said,—

"You must not think, Kitty, that I mean to treat your troubles lightly, whatever they may be. Think about them a little longer by yourself; and in a day or two, if they still seem as unendurable, perhaps it will relieve you to talk to me as plainly as you choose. I shall be very glad to help you if I can, Kitty; very glad and willing. You must look upon me as another brother."

"Or a cousin, maybe, sir?" suggested Kitty, turning away her head.