University of Virginia Library

11. XI.
KITTY ANSWERS.

IT was dimmest twilight when Kitty entered
Mrs. Ellison's room and sank down
on the first chair in silence.

“The colonel met a friend at the St. Louis, and
forgot about the expedition, Kitty,” said Fanny,
“and he only came in half an hour ago. But it 's
just as well; I know you 've had a splendid time.
Where 's Mr. Arbuton?”

Kitty burst into tears.

“Why, has anything happened to him?” cried
Mrs. Ellison, springing towards her.

“To him? No! What should happen to him?”
Kitty demanded with an indignant accent.

“Well, then, has anything happened to you?”

“I don't know if you can call it happening.
But I suppose you 'll be satisfied now, Fanny.
He 's offered himself to me.” Kitty uttered the
last words with a sort of violence, as if since the
fact must be stated, she wished it to appear in the
sharpest relief.

“O dear!” said Mrs. Ellison, not so well satisfied

as the successful match-maker ought to be.
So long as it was a marriage in the abstract, she
had never ceased to desire it; but as the actual
union of Kitty and this Mr. Arbuton, of whom,
really, they knew so little, and of whom, if she
searched her heart, she had as little liking as
knowledge, it was another affair. Mrs. Ellison
trembled at her triumph, and began to think that
failure would have been easier to bear. Were
they in the least suited to each other? Would
she like to see poor Kitty chained for life to that
impassive egotist, whose very merits were repellent,
and whose modesty even seemed to convict and
snub you? Mrs. Ellison was not able to put the
matter to herself with moderation, either way;
doubtless she did Mr. Arbuton injustice now.
“Did you accept him?” she whispered, feebly.

“Accept him?” repeated Kitty. “No!”

“O dear!” again sighed Mrs. Ellison, feeling
that this was scarcely better, and not daring to
ask further.

“I'm dreadfully perplexed, Fanny,” said Kitty,
after waiting for the questions which did not come,
“and I wish you 'd help me think.”

“I will, darling. But I don't know that I 'll be
of much use. I begin to think I 'm not very good
at thinking.”

Kitty, who longed chiefly to get the situation
more distinctly before herself, gave no heed to this
confession, but went on to rehearse the whole
affair. The twilight lent her its veil; and in the
kindly obscurity she gathered courage to face all
the facts, and even to find what was droll in them.

“It was very solemn, of course, and I was frightened;
but I tried to keep my wits about me, and
not to say yes, simply because that was the easiest
thing. I told him that I did n't know, — and
I don't; and that I must have time to think, —
and I must. He was very ungenerous, and said he
had hoped I had already had time to think; and he
could n't seem to understand, or else I could n't very
well explain, how it had been with me all along.”

“He might certainly say you had encouraged
him,” Mrs. Ellison remarked, thoughtfully.

“Encouraged him, Fanny? How can you accuse
me of such indelicacy?”

“Encouraging is n't indelicacy. The gentlemen
have to be encouraged, or of course they 'd never
have any courage. They 're so timid, naturally.”

“I don't think Mr. Arbuton is very timid. He
seemed to think that he had only to ask as a matter
of form, and I had no business to say anything.
What has he ever done for me? And
has n't he often been intensely disagreeable? He

ought n't to have spoken just after overhearing
what he did. It was horrid to do so. He was
very obtuse, too, not to see that girls can't always
be so certain of themselves as men, or, if they are,
don't know they are as soon as they 're asked.”

“Yes,” interrupted Mrs. Ellison, “that 's the
way with girls. I do believe that most of them
— when they 're young like you, Kitty — never
think of marriage as the end of their flirtations.
They 'd just like the attentions and the romance
to go on forever, and never turn into anything
more serious; and they 're not to blame for that,
though they do get blamed for it.”

“Certainly,” assented Kitty, eagerly, “that 's
it; that 's just what I was saying; that 's the very
reason why girls must have time to make up their
minds. You had, I suppose.”

“Yes, two minutes. Poor Dick was going back
to his regiment, and stood with his watch in his
hand. I said no, and called after him to correct
myself. But, Kitty, if the romance had happened
to stop without his saying anything, you would n't
have liked that either, would you?”

“No,” faltered Kitty, “I suppose not.”

“Well, then, don't you see? That 's a great
point in his favor. How much time did you want,
or did he give you?”

“I said I should answer before we left Quebec,”
answered Kitty, with a heavy sigh.

“Don't you know what to say now?”

“I can't tell. That 's what I want you to help
me think out.”

Mrs. Ellison was silent for a moment before she
said, “Well, then, I suppose we shall have to go
back to the very beginning.”

“Yes,” assented Kitty, faintly.

“You did have a sort of fancy for him the first
time you saw him, did n't you?” asked Mrs. Ellison,
coaxingly, while forcing herself to be systematic
and coherent, by a mental strain of which
no idea can be given.”

“Yes,” said Kitty, yet more faintly, adding,
“but I can't tell just what sort of a fancy it was.
I suppose I admired him for being handsome and
stylish, and for having such exquisite manners.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. Ellison. “And after you
got acquainted with him?”

“Why, you know we 've talked that over once
already, Fanny.”

“Yes, but we ought n't to skip anything now,”
replied Mrs. Ellison, in a tone of judicial accuracy
which made Kitty smile.

But she quickly became serious again, and said,
“Afterwards I could n't tell whether to like him

or not, or whether he wanted me to. I think he
acted very strangely for a person in — love. I
used to feel so troubled and oppressed when I was
with him. He seemed always to be making himself
agreeable under protest.”

“Perhaps that was just your imagination, Kitty.”

“Perhaps it was; but it troubled me just the
same.”

“Well, and then?”

“Well, and then after that day of the Montgomery
expedition, he seemed to change altogether,
and to try always to be pleasant, and to
do everything he could to make me like him. I
don't know how to account for it. Ever since
then he 's been extremely careful of me, and behaved
— of course without knowing it — as if I
belonged to him already. Or maybe I 've imagined
that too. It 's very hard to tell what has really
happened the last two weeks.”

Kitty was silent, and Mrs. Ellison did not
speak at once. Presently she asked, “Was his
acting as if you belonged to him disagreeable?”

“I can't tell. I think it was rather presuming.
I don't know why he did it.”

“Do you respect him?” demanded Mrs. Ellison.

“Why, Fanny, I 've always told you that I did
respect some things in him.”

Mrs. Ellison had the facts before her, and it
rested upon her to sum them up, and do something
with them. She rose to a sitting posture, and confronted
her task.

“Well, Kitty, I 'll tell you: I don't really know
what to think. But I can say this: if you liked
him at first, and then did n't like him, and afterwards
he made himself more agreeable, and you
did n't mind his behaving as if you belonged to him,
and you respected him, but after all did n't think
him fascinating —”

“He is fascinating — in a kind of way. He was,
from the beginning. In a story his cold, snubbing,
putting-down ways would have been perfectly fascinating.”

“Then why did n't you take him?”

“Because,” answered Kitty, between laughing
and crying, “it is n't a story, and I don't know
whether I like him.”

“But do you think you might get to like him?”

“I don't know. His asking brings back all the
doubts I ever had of him, and that I 've been forgetting
the past two weeks. I can't tell whether I
like him or not. If I did, should n't I trust him
more?”

“Well, whether you are in love or not, I 'll tell
you what you are, Kitty,” cried Mrs. Ellison, provoked

with her indecision, and yet relieved that
the worst, whatever it was, was postponed thereby
for a day or two.

“What?”

“You 're —”

But at this important juncture the colonel came
lounging in, and Kitty glided out of the room.

“Richard,” said Mrs. Ellison, seriously, and in a
tone implying that it was the colonel's fault, as
usual, “you know what has happened, I suppose.”

“No, my dear, I don't; but no matter: I will
presently, I dare say.”

“O, I wish for once you would n't be so flippant.
Mr. Arbuton has offered himself to Kitty.”

Colonel Ellison gave a quick, sharp whistle of
amazement, but trusted himself to nothing more
articulate.

“Yes,” said his wife, responding to the whistle,
“and it makes me perfectly wretched.”

“Why, I thought you liked him.”

“I did n't like him; but I thought it would be
an excellent thing for Kitty.”

“And won't it?”

“She does n't know.”

“Does n't know?”

“No.”

The colonel was silent, while Mrs. Ellison stated

the case in full, and its pending uncertainty. Then
he exclaimed vehemently, as if his amazement
had been growing upon him, “This is the most
astonishing thing in the world! Who would ever
have dreamt of that young iceberg being in love?”

“Have n't I told you all along he was?”

“O yes, certainly; but that might be taken
either way, you know. You would discover the
tender passion in the eye of a potato.”

“Colonel Ellison,” said Fanny with sternness,
“why do you suppose he 's been hanging about us
for the last four weeks? Why should he have
stayed in Quebec? Do you think he pitied me, or
found you so very agreeable?”

“Well, I thought he found us just tolerable, and
was interested in the place.”

Mrs. Ellison made no direct reply to this pitiable
speech, but looked a scorn which, happily for the
colonel, the darkness hid. Presently she said that
bats did not express the blindness of men, for any
bat could have seen what was going on.

“Why,” remarked the colonel, “I did have a
momentary suspicion that day of the Montgomery
business; they both looked very confused, when I
saw them at the end of that street, and neither of
them had anything to say; but that was accounted
for by what you told me afterwards about his

adventure. At the time I did n't pay much attention
to the matter. The idea of his being in
love seemed too ridiculous.”

“Was it ridiculous for you to be in love with
me?”

“No; and yet I can't praise my condition for its
wisdom, Fanny.”

“Yes! that 's like men. As soon as one of
them is safely married, he thinks all the love-making
in the world has been done forever, and
he can't conceive of two young people taking a
fancy to each other.”

“That 's something so, Fanny. But granting
— for the sake of argument merely — that Boston
has been asking Kitty to marry him, and she
does n't know whether she wants him, what are we
to do about it? I don't like him well enough to
plead his cause; do you? When does Kitty think
she 'll be able to make up her mind?”

“She 's to let him know before we leave.”

The colonel laughed. “And so he 's to hang
about here on uncertainties for two whole days!
That is rather rough on him. Fanny, what made
you so eager for this business?”

“Eager? I was n't eager.”

“Well, then, — reluctantly acquiescent?”

“Why, she 's so literary and that.”

“And what?”

“How insulting! — Intellectual, and so on; and
I thought she would be just fit to live in a place
where everybody is literary and intellectual. That
is, I thought that, if I thought anything.”

“Well,” said the colonel, “you may have been
right on the whole, but I don't think Kitty is
showing any particular force of mind, just now,
that would fit her to live in Boston. My opinion
is, that it 's ridiculous for her to keep him in suspense.
She might as well answer him first as last.
She 's putting herself under a kind of obligation
by her delay. I 'll talk to her —”

“If you do, you 'll kill her. You don't know
how she 's wrought up about it.”

“O well, I 'll be careful of her sensibilities. It 's
my duty to speak with her. I 'm here in the
place of a parent. Besides, don't I know Kitty?
I 've almost brought her up.”

“Maybe you 're right. You 're all so queer that
perhaps you 're right. Only, do be careful, Richard.
You must approach the matter very delicately,
— indirectly, you know. Girls are different,
remember, from young men, and you must n't
be blunt. Do manœuvre a little, for once in your
life.”

“All right, Fanny; you need n't be afraid of

my doing anything awkward or sudden. I 'll go
to her room pretty soon, after she is quieted down,
and have a good, calm old fatherly conversation
with her.”

The colonel was spared this errand; for Kitty
had left some of her things on Fanny's table, and
now came back for them with a lamp in her hand.
Her averted face showed the marks of weeping;
the corners of her firm-set lips were downward
bent, as if some resolution which she had taken
were very painful. This the anxious Fanny saw;
and she made a gesture to the colonel which any
woman would have understood to enjoin silence,
or, at least, the utmost caution and tenderness of
speech. The colonel summoned his finesse and
said, cheerily, “Well, Kitty, what 's Boston been
saying to you?”

Mrs. Ellison fell back upon her sofa as if shot,
and placed her hand over her face.

Kitty seemed not to hear her cousin. Having
gathered up her things, she bent an unmoved
face and an unseeing gaze full upon him, and
glided from the room without a word.

“Well, upon my soul,” cried the colonel, “this
is a pleasant, nightmarish, sleep-walking, Lady-Macbethish
little transaction. Confound it, Fanny!
this comes of your wanting me to manœuvre.

If you 'd let me come straight at the subject, —
like a man —”

“Please, Richard, don't say anything more now,”
pleaded Mrs. Ellison in a broken voice. “You can't
help it, I know; and I must do the best I can,
under the circumstances. Do go away for a little
while, darling! O dear!”

As for Kitty, when she had got out of the room
in that phantasmal fashion, she dimly recalled,
through the mists of her own trouble, the colonel's
dismay at her so glooming upon him, and began
to think that she had used poor Dick more tragically
than she need, and so began to laugh
softly to herself; but while she stood there at the
entry window a moment, laughing in the moonlight,
that made her lamp-flame thin, and painted
her face with its pale lustre, Mr. Arbuton came
down the attic stairway. He was not a man of
quick fancies; but to one of even slower imagination
and of calmer mood, she might very well
have seemed unreal, the creature of a dream, fantastic,
intangible, insensible, arch, not wholly without
some touch of the malign. In his heart he
groaned over her beauty as if she were lost to him
forever in this elfish transfiguration.

“Miss Ellison!” he scarcely more than whispered.

“You ought not to speak to me now,” she
answered, gravely.

“I know it; but I could not help it. For
heaven's sake, do not let it tell against me. I
wished to ask if I should not see you to-morrow;
to beg that all might go on as had been planned,
and as if nothing had been said to-day.”

“It 'll be very strange,” said Kitty. “My
cousins know everything now. How can we meet
before them?”

“I 'm not going away without an answer, and
we can't remain here without meeting. It will be
less strange if we let everything take its course.”

“Well.”

“Thanks.”

He looked strangely humbled, but even more
bewildered than humbled.

She listened while he descended the steps, unbolted
the street door, and closed it behind him.
Then she passed out of the moonlight into her
own room, whose close-curtained space the lamp
filled with its ruddy glow, and revealed her again,
no malicious sprite, but a very puzzled, conscientious,
anxious young girl.

Of one thing, at least, she was clear. It had all
come about through misunderstanding, through
his taking her to be something that she was not;

for she was certain that Mr. Arbuton was of too
worldly a spirit to choose, if he had known, a girl
of such origin and lot as she was only too proud
to own. The deception must have begun with
dress; and she determined that her first stroke
for truth and sincerity should be most sublimely
made in the return of Fanny's things, and a
rigid fidelity to her own dresses. “Besides,”
she could not help reflecting, “my travelling-suit
will be just the thing for a picnic.” And
here, if the cynical reader of another sex is disposed
to sneer at the method of her self-devotion,
I am sure that women, at least, will allow it was
most natural and highly proper that in this great
moment she should first think of dress, upon which
so great consequences hang in matters of the heart.
Who — to be honest for once, O vain and conceited
men! — can deny that the cut, the color, the texture,
the stylish set of dresses, has not had everything
to do with the rapture of love's young dream?
Are not certain bits of lace and knots of ribbon as
much a part of it as any smile or sidelong glance
of them all? And hath not the long experience
of the fair taught them that artful dress is half the
virtue of their spells? Full well they know it;
and when Kitty resolved to profit no longer by
Fanny's wardrobe, she had won the hardest part
of the battle in behalf of perfect truth towards Mr.
Arbuton. She did not, indeed, stop with this, but
lay awake, devising schemes by which she should
disabuse him of his errors about her, and persuade
him that she was no wife for him.