第 84 页

release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite

hearty--there is something of surliness in his compliments. He looks

upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that

place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a privilege without being

duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks,

but he has no business there, and the sooner he is gone, the better.

The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and

stand in the open air--in the street he has so often pictured to

himself when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all

his dreams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The

night is bad, and yet how cheerful and gay in his eyes! One of the

gentlemen, in taking leave of him, pressed some money into his hand.

He has not counted it; but when they have gone a few paces beyond the

box for poor Prisoners, he hastily returns and drops it in.

Mr Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking

Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At first, they can only

travel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on before, because

of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave

the closer portions of the town behind, they are able to dispense with

this precaution and to proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard

galloping would be too slow for Kit; but, when they are drawing near

their journey's end, he begs they may go more slowly, and, when the

house appears in sight, that they may stop--only for a minute or two,

to give him time to breathe.

But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to

him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the

garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise of

tongues, and tread of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and

finds his mother clinging round his neck.

And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, still holding

the baby as if she had never put it down since that sad day when they

little hoped to have such joy as this--there she is, Heaven bless her,

crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and

there is little Barbara--poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so

much paler, and yet so very pretty--trembling like a leaf and

supporting herself against the wall; and there is Mrs Garland, neater

and nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her;

and there is Mr Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to

embrace everybody; and there is the single gentleman hovering round

them all, and constant to nothing for an instant; and there is that

good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on

the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring

fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody; and each and all of

them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and

severally commit all manner of follies.

And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again,

and can find words and smiles, Barbara--that soft-hearted, gentle,

foolish little Barbara--is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon

by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into

hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon again, and is, indeed,

so bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is

hardly a bit better at last than she was at first. Then, Kit's mother

comes in and says, will he come and speak to her; and Kit says 'Yes,'

and goes; and he says in a kind voice 'Barbara!' and Barbara's mother

tells her that 'it's only Kit;' and Barbara says (with her eyes closed

all the time) 'Oh! but is it him indeed?' and Barbara's mother says 'To

be sure it is, my dear; there's nothing the matter now.' And in

further assurance that he's safe and sound, Kit speaks to her again;

and then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into

another fit of crying; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod

to each other and pretend to scold her--but only to bring her to

herself the faster, bless you!--and being experienced matrons, and

acute at perceiving the first dawning symptoms of recovery, they

comfort Kit with the assurance that 'she'll do now,' and so dismiss him

to the place from whence he came.

Well! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of

wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand as if Kit and his

friends were first-rate company; and there is little Jacob, walking, as

the popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at a most surprising

pace, and keeping his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow,

and making the best use of his time, you may believe. Kit no sooner

comes in, than that single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman)

charges all the glasses--bumpers--and drinks his health, and tells him

he shall never want a friend while he lives; and so does Mr Garland,

and so does Mrs Garland, and so does Mr Abel. But even this honour and

distinction is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of

his pocket a massive silver watch--going hard, and right to half a

second--and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with

flourishes all over; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly

for him, and presented to him on the spot. You may rest assured that

Mr and Mrs Garland can't help hinting about their present, in store,

and that Mr Abel tells outright that he has his; and that Kit is the

happiest of the happy.

There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be

conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being

an iron-shod quadruped, Kit takes the first opportunity of slipping

away and hurrying to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the

latch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting; before he has

crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box (for he

brooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give him welcome; and

when Kit goes up to caress and pat him, the pony rubs his nose against

his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It

is the crowning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception; and

Kit fairly puts his arm round Whisker's neck and hugs him.

But how comes Barbara to trip in there? and how smart she is again!

she has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in

the stable, of all places in the world? Why, since Kit has been away,

the pony would take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you see,

not dreaming that Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see

that everything was right, has come upon him unawares. Blushing little

Barbara!

It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough; it may be that there

are even better things to caress than ponies. He leaves him for

Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great

deal better. She is afraid--and here Barbara looks down and blushes

more--that he must have thought her very foolish. 'Not at all,' says

Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs--Hem!--just the slightest

cough possible--not more than that.

What a discreet pony when he chooses! He is as quiet now as if he were

of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he always has. 'We

have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara,' says Kit. Barbara gives

him hers. Why, she is trembling now! Foolish, fluttering Barbara!

Arm's length? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was not a

long arm, by any means, and besides, she didn't hold it out straight,

but bent a little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that he

could see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was

natural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural

that Barbara should raise her eyes unconsciously, and find him out.

Was it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or

design, Kit should kiss Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara

said 'for shame,' but let him do it too--twice. He might have done it

thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he

were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being

frightened, ran away--not straight to where her mother and Kit's mother

were, though, lest they should see how red her cheeks were, and should

ask her why. Sly little Barbara!

When the first transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and

his mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby

to boot, had had their suppers together--which there was no hurrying

over, for they were going to stop there all night--Mr Garland called

Kit to him, and taking him into a room where they could be alone, told

him that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatly.

Kit looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing this, that the old

gentleman hastened to add, he would be agreeably surprised; and asked

him if he would be ready next morning for a journey.

'For a journey, sir!' cried Kit.

'In company with me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its

purpose?'

Kit turned paler yet, and shook his head.

'Oh yes. I think you do already,' said his master. 'Try.'

Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible, but he

plainly pronounced the words 'Miss Nell,' three or four times--shaking

his head while he did so, as if he would add that there was no hope of

that.

But Mr Garland, instead of saying 'Try again,' as Kit had made sure he

would, told him very seriously, that he had guessed right.

'The place of their retreat is indeed discovered,' he said, 'at last.

And that is our journey's end.'

Kit faltered out such questions as, where was it, and how had it been

found, and how long since, and was she well and happy?

'Happy she is, beyond all doubt,' said Mr Garland. 'And well, I--I

trust she will be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but

she was better when I heard this morning, and they were full of hope.

Sit you down, and you shall hear the rest.'

Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr

Garland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would

remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was

a young man, hung in the best room), and how this brother lived a long

way off, in a country-place, with an old clergyman who had been his

early friend. How, although they loved each other as brothers should,

they had not met for many years, but had communicated by letter from

time to time, always looking forward to some period when they would

take each other by the hand once more, and still letting the Present

time steal on, as it was the habit for men to do, and suffering the

Future to melt into the Past. How this brother, whose temper was very

mild and quiet and retiring--such as Mr Abel's--was greatly beloved by

the simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor

(for so they called him), and had every one experienced his charity and

benevolence. How even those slight circumstances had come to his

knowledge, very slowly and in course of years, for the Bachelor was one

of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in

discovering and extolling the good deeds of others, than in trumpeting

their own, be they never so commendable. How, for that reason, he

seldom told them of his village friends; but how, for all that, his

mind had become so full of two among them--a child and an old man, to

whom he had been very kind--that, in a letter received a few days

before, he had dwelt upon them from first to last, and had told such a

tale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it

without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter,

was directly led to the belief that these must be the very wanderers

for whom so much search had been made, and whom Heaven had directed to

his brother's care. How he had written for such further information as

would put the fact beyond all doubt; how it had that morning arrived;

had confirmed his first impression into a certainty; and was the

immediate cause of that journey being planned, which they were to take

to-morrow.

'In the meantime,' said the old gentleman rising, and laying his hand

on Kit's shoulder, 'you have a great need of rest; for such a day as

this would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven send our

journey may have a prosperous ending!'

CHAPTER 69

Kit was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time

before day, began to prepare for his welcome expedition. The hurry of

spirits consequent upon the events of yesterday, and the unexpected

intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep through the

long dark hours, and summoned such uneasy dreams about his pillow that

it was best to rise.

But, had it been the beginning of some great labour with the same end

in view--had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be

performed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued

under very privation and difficulty, and to be achieved only with great

distress, fatigue, and suffering--had it been the dawn of some painful

enterprise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and

endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if

happily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell--Kit's cheerful

zeal would have been as highly roused: Kit's ardour and impatience

would have been, at least, the same.

Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of

an hour the whole house were astir and busy. Everybody hurried to do

something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman,

it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else