Then she began to sigh, softly at first, and not enough for me to be sure of it; but by-and-by more deeply, as she found me too polite to be aware of this exertion of an undoubted private right. And she used to say—“Oh, I do admire her, so much! I think she is so lovely. Don’t you quite agree with me, Kit?” And I used to say—“Most perfect. Can there be any doubt about it?” And then she would not look at me, perhaps for half an hour.
I know that this was very wrong of me—as wrong as well could be. And I used to steal a glance at Kitty, when she was not watching, and ask myself if any man with two eyes in his head could turn them twice on Sally Chalker, after such a view as that. However, I did not say so; for I felt that my darling should know better, and if she chose to be like that, why she must, until she came to reason; and that was her place, more than mine. But I could not bear to hear her sigh.
Miss Parslow rather enjoyed this business, which was a great deal worse of her than anything that I did. For she herself had set it going, with no consideration for my feelings, and no right whatever. And I think that she ought to have healed the mischief, which she could have done at any moment; whereas she pretended not to see it, although she was much too sharp for that.
However, it could not go on long, and I had made up my mind to clear it up, when I was saved the trouble. For as I sat in my favourite place, with the lovely valley before me, and the sun sinking into a bed of roses far beyond the Surrey hills, I heard the little pit-a-pat that was dearer than my pulse to me, and down the winding walk came Kitty, carrying an ugly yellow book. She had no hat on, and her hair was tied back, as if it had been troubling her; and as soon as she saw me she turned away her head, and hastily passed her hand over her cheeks, as if to be sure that they were dry. Then she looked at me bravely, though her mouth was twitching, and said—“Oh, will you do it for me, if you please?”
“Do what?” I asked very reasonably, though I began to guess what she was thinking of; for the ugly book was a Railway Guide.
“Miss Parslow told me to ask you. She cannot make it out any more than I can. It is very stupid, of course; but she says that she never met a woman who could make out Bradshaw, and she would strictly avoid her, if she ever did.”
“But what is it I am to make out? We can’t get to Sunbury, by any line, my darling.” When I called her that, her dear eyes shone; but she went on, as if she were correcting them.
“What I want to make out is a good quick train, without any extra fare to pay, from London to Glasgow; and it must arrive by daylight, though I suppose it would have to start at night for that. But I am not at all afraid.”
“What on earth has got into this lovely little head?” I made offer to take it between my two hands, as I had been allowed to do, once or twice, when apparently falling back in health. But it seemed to prefer its own support just now.
“You must be aware, if you will take the trouble to think for a minute about it, that I cannot remain here in this sort of way, living upon a perfect stranger, although she is goodness and kindness itself; and running into debt in a country place like this, just because I have got no money. The only thing for me is to find out my father. He may be delighted to receive me now, and I may even be able to help him there. Miss Parslow has promised most kindly to lend me quite money enough to get to Glasgow. I must write to my father by this evening’s post, and then I shall be able to start to-morrow; only I must let him know what train I am likely to arrive by, for his time is always occupied.”