Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex

by R. D. Blackmore

“Kit, you are a very fine fellow after all, though you do take things so lumpily. But answer me one little question. Why did your aunt give her that hundred pounds?”

“Because she loved her, as everybody does—or did. Because she was so kind, and good, and loving.”

“No, my boy, not at all for that reason. But because she married you, Aunt Parslow’s nephew. The money was yours, in all honesty, not hers. Or at any rate it belonged to you together. She had no more right to take that money without your consent, than I have to walk into Baker Rasp’s shop, and walk out of it with the contents of his till. You must look at things squarely, and make your mind up. Expel her from your heart. She is a light-of-love, and a robber. Oh, Kit, Kit, that I should have brought you into this! And I did think that I knew so much about women.”

My uncle shed a tear, not on his own account, or mine, and perhaps not even for the sake of women; but because he had loved Kitty as his own daughter, and he could no more expel her from his heart, than I from mine; at least without taking a long time about it. I was moved with his grief, for he was hard to grieve; and my wrath at his injustice was disarmed. I put back the empty box, and locked the drawer; for I knew that it was useless to argue with him.

“This is the second great grief of my life,” he said in a low voice, as if talking to himself; “over and above those losses which are inflicted on us by the Lord, as time goes on. And the other was through a woman too. I will tell you of it, when we have more time; for it may help you in your own grief, Kit. But now we must quiet those fellows downstairs. I wish we had never called them in. I would rather lose every penny I possess, and start in the world again, as a market-porter, than let this miserable story get abroad. We must take your view of the case before the public, and tell them that there is no money gone, except her own. The Lord knows that I am not a liar, and He will forgive me for stretching a bit this time. Or perhaps you had better do it; because you believe it, you know, and so there won’t be any lie at all. You go down first; and I will come behind you grumbling, which no one can say is an ungrateful thing now.”

This seemed the proper course, although in my misery I should never have thought of it, until I wished that I had done so. The question as to the right to that money lay between myself and Kitty; and as she had doubtless considered it hers, to brand her at large as a robber, without allowing her chance of explanation, would be most unfair, and would only add another pain to a story too painful already. So I went down and told Sergeant Biggs that my wife had taken a few clothes in her handbag, and a part of some money she had lately received as a wedding-present, but had left the balance of her cash for housekeeping, as well as most of her trinkets, in the bedroom drawer.

He was much disappointed at this, and shook his head, to disguise the blow received by his sagacity.

“Beats me for the present, at any rate,” he said; “but time will throw more light upon it, before we are many years older. You hold on, sir, and not go about too much. Half the mischief comes of that. A party comes to us, and he says—‘Look here, I leave the whole of it to your care, sergeant. You understand these things, and I don’t. Anything as you do I will back up—magistrates, witnesses, lawyers, dogstealers—whatever you find needful, up to a five-pound note, or more.’ And after that, what do we feel? Why, ready to go through with it, on our best mettle, you might say, and come down with cash out of our own breeches’ pocket, for love of nothing else but duty. And then we gets crossed, like two dogs a-coursing, by the other party’s track, with his nose up in the air the very same as if he never come anigh us. So I says to Turnover, ‘Now one thing or the other; either they must let us do it all, or nothing. And if we do it all, in a hunt-the-slipper thing like this, we must know all the ins and outs, first from the beginning. Then,’ says I, ‘we can give our minds to it, Turnover.’ And he answers—‘Yes, sergeant, but do they mean to tell us everything?’ And now that’s the question before you, sir.”

“We will think about that, and let you know by-and-by,” said my uncle, who had listened to this long oration; “not that you ever find out anything, Biggs. Still it is a comfort to believe that you are trying. And now come and do what you ought to have done long ago—make a careful examination of the footprints by the door. It has been raining pretty sharp; but it all came from the south, and the important marks are on the north side in the lane, according to what my nephew saw last night, and the shower won’t have touched them, with the door shut to. Bring some paper and a pencil, and your old joint-rule, Kit. Not that we shall ever make out much.”