 | CHAPTER XXX.
KITTY IN THE WOODS. Outpost |  |
30. 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 sacrifieed
somewhat of manly dignity and the awful supremaey 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
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
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
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, —
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
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
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
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
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
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.
Far 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,
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,
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 a 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
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.
| CHAPTER XXX.
KITTY IN THE WOODS. Outpost | |