“I dunno about that; but harkee, Mr. Fortescue, or whatever may be your name—”
“That is my name. You are particular. One would suppose you were a lawyer about to open an indictment. Go on, Kitty.”
“Ye mean to act basely towards my young mistress—that’s what ’ee mean to do. Oh, none of your lying looks and lifting of hands at me. I be only a common country gell, but I can tell what it is as shines in your eye when you see her, and trimbles in your voice when you speak to her. I can tell what it is as meks you sit thinkin’ by day and wander about your room by night. I can tell what it is that’s plottin’ in your hard black heart as well and better than a lord’s lady or a squire’s wife.”
“Can you?”
“Yes, I can.”
“Upon my word you are an astonishingly clever girl. I should not have given you credit for so much penetration. You can read my thoughts, can you, and see into my—my—‘black heart,’ as you are pleased to term it? I don’t know which to admire most—your perspicuity or your politeness.”
“It won’t do, Mr. Fortescue. I won’t be put aside by foine words.”
“You take my advice, my excellent and sagacious friend. Look after your pigs and poultry, and don’t attempt to meddle in matters which don’t concern you.”
“Not consarn me! not consarn me! Don’t it, indeed? Do you suppose I am likely to stand tamely by and see a white dove carried off by a ravenous kite? Don’t it consarn me to see the dear lady I’ve known from a child on the edge of being ruined for this life, and for the next, too, maybe?”
“Your similes do you great credit,” said Mr. Fortescue coolly, paring his nails with his penknife—“very great credit, especially the white dove and kite. I am the kite, I presume, and your mistress is the white dove. Anything more?”