Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex

by R. D. Blackmore

Mr. Golightly was not only a Christian, but a gentleman. Far as I was below his rank in life, he never let me feel the difference, either by word, or turn of manner, or even by tone of silence. He never inquired into my affairs, though no indifference prevented it; and nothing was further from his mind than the thought that he was doing good to me. Being of a nature which requires something to love, I loved this man, and never could see anything to laugh at in him, as my Uncle Cornelius made believe to do.

I became restless if any day went by without my seeing him, and I could not sleep on my two chairs, however tired I might be, without the remembrance of his—“Good-night, God bless you, Kit”—which he always gave me, in a gentle voice, and with a look which was itself a blessing. And now I had been admitted to the acquaintance of his darling; whom he loved as I loved Kitty, but with a holier sense and fear. She was lying on a horsehair sofa, in his poorly furnished room; for he was poor, as a good man is nearly always somehow. And I never shall forget the look she gave me from her weary eyes, quite as if the depth of kindness were enhanced by its want of power. And she rose upon one wasted arm, and offered me a hand just like a white kid glove, that has been drawn off.

“You have been very good to father;” she looked at my sunburnt face, as if she would like to remember it somewhere else; “and what lovely grapes you bring me! See, how greedy I have been!”

It was as much as I could do to keep my eyes from being like grape-stalks; and I tried to drive my sorrow inwards, by thinking that all of it was wanted there. But it would not do, and I turned away.

“What she wants is outdoor air;” I said, as soon as we left the room, and her father asked me what I thought; and I said it more to hide my own distress, than from any hope at all. “Outdoor air without exercise, and with very gentle movement.”

“Sims, the flyman, is very good;” her father’s lips trembled as he spoke, and he tried to make a smile of it; “he knows that we cannot afford much carriage-hire, and he comes at half-price when he has nothing else to do. But since the other spring broke, she can hardly bear it. She fainted twice, the last time we went.”

“But the river, the water, the Thames!” I said, almost fearing to make a suggestion so stale, “what can be more easy than the gliding of a boat? Is that even too much for her?”

“Bessy has never tried it yet,” said the anxious father, pondering much; “when I was at Oxford I loved the river; but I have not found time for it for many years. And I fear it would be cold upon the water.”

“It is much more likely to be too hot;” I answered, with some wonder, at the clear unselfishness of this man, who loved the river, yet lived upon its banks, without ever taking boat, for fear of slighting duty; “the sun strikes very strong upon the river; but after four o’clock it is delightful. I know a boat that would exactly suit her. She can lie upon the cushions in the stern. The weather is beautifully calm and warm. Will you let me try it?”

He was loth to consent without leave from Dr. Sippets, which of course was right enough; but the doctor said it was the very thing he was going to recommend that very day; and as soon as the poor girl heard of it, she would scarcely hear of any other thing. We had an old boat of our own, but it was not nice enough for her; so I went as far as Shepperton for the one of which I had spoken to him. This was a very commodious affair, and the name painted on it was The Duchess, obliterating the old name Emmy Moggs; for a genuine duchess had been in it, while staying for her health at Walton. Phil Moggs was the owner, and he raised his price, as soon as he had painted out his good wife’s name. And he thought so much of this boat now—though described by rivals as the washing-tub—that he always insisted on going with it. However, he was not a bad sort of fellow, though belonging henceforth by his own account, to the higher aristocracy. The cheaper men called him “the Duke,” and he accepted the title without ill-will.