CHAPTER X.

KIT’S DAYS.

Our waking dreams are fatal! How she dreamed Of things impossible upon this earth! Of joys perpetual, in perpetual change; Of stable pleasures on the shifting scene, Eternal sunshine in the skies of life! How richly were her noon-tide trances hung With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys— Joy behind joy in endless perspective! Till at Fate’s call * * * * Starting she woke to find herself undone! YOUNG.

The bustle of arrival at Paddington Station startled Kit from profound slumber.

Waking up, she indulged in the long, loud yawn of the hard-working, sound sleeper when suddenly aroused. Staring around upon the novel scene and coming slowly to her senses, she exclaimed:

“Whar upon the face of the yeth be Oi?”

“You are in London. Come, bestir yourself! Straighten your hat, arrange your shawl,” answered Brandon Coyle, who was beginning to gather up his valise, rug, umbrella, and so forth.

But Kit only stretched her shapely arms out at full length and opened her handsome mouth with a yawn that threatened to swallow Paddington Station and a noise that brought the guard to the door to know if anything was amiss.

“No!” roughly answered Coyle. “Only this fool, who does not know how to behave herself!” he added in a tone so low that it did not even reach Kit’s ears. “Call a cab for me, if you please,” he concluded, putting a shilling in the guard’s hand.

“OOUW-OOOH!” sounded Kit, with a powerful yawn.

“Be quiet, can’t you?” rudely exclaimed Coyle.

“No, Oi can’t, then! I’m no half awake yet! Oi’m just as sleepy as a dog!” answered Kit, clapping her hand before her red lips and trying to suppress another yawn, which, however, broke forth with all the more force for the attempt.

“You are too intolerably vulgar even for a fish wench!” exclaimed Coyle, angrily.

“Wull, then, whoy dunnot yo mek a leddy o’me, then Oi wuddunt be voolgar!” retorted Kit.

“I fear that would be past my power,” answered the man, with a harsh laugh.

And now as Kit had arranged her disordered dress, he helped her to step down from the car to the platform, where they stood waiting for the cab, which soon came up.

“To Piccadilly! I will tell you where to stop!” were the directions given to the driver when Coyle had seated himself beside his companion in the cab.

And to Piccadilly they were driven.

Coyle, regardless of his companion, took out his cigar, lighted it and began to smoke.

Kit had no suspicion that she was affronted by the act. How should she? She had been brought up in tobacco smoke, and had been accustomed to see her father, uncles and grandfathers all smoking together in one small keeping-room, without having been smothered or sickened, and this from the day she was born until the day she entered the service of “Mistress Net.” So she took no exception to her “’usband’s” smoking.

She amused herself by staring out of the windows at the fine shops and great buildings, and asking what this, that or the other thing was.

At first Coyle took pleasure in imposing on her ignorance by giving her absurd answers.

“Wot’s yon?” inquired Kit, pointing to a great theatre.

“Oh! that’s St. Peter’s Cathedral. You have heard of St. Peter’s in Rome, haven’t you?”

“Oi dunno. Oi’ve heerd of Rome, though. Be Rome in Lunnun?”

“Surely.”

“Wot’s thet?” continued Kit, pointing to a splendid bazaar, with white marble facade and many plate-glass windows.

“The Capitol at Washington. You’ve heard of that?”

“Oi hev heerd of Wash’ton. Be Wash’ton in Lunnun, too?”

“Of course it is.”

“Oi’m thenking a’ the wurld be in Lunnun toon, beant it?”

“Most of it is.”

“And wot’s yon?” inquired Kit, pointing to a reformatory.

“Come, be quiet, I want to finish my cigar,” replied Coyle, in a tone that silenced Kit.

Brandon Coyle finished his cigar and threw it away.

Then he ordered the driver to draw up before an imposing looking edifice—Apsley House, the town residence of the late Duke of Wellington.

“Is that Coyle Hoose, where moy fowk-in-law live?” inquired Kit, staring at the place with an awe-stricken appearance.

“Yes, that is Coyle House,” replied Brandon, not hesitating to lie in order to deceive his simple-minded companion. “That’s Coyle House; but I must get out first and rap to see if any of the servants are up. It is very early, you see, and there may be no one stirring yet. I may have to rap some time before I succeed in rousing any one.”

“Well, noo, I wud rather get oot,” said Kit.

“No, no; it is very damp. The fog has turned to a drizzle. You must stay here until I get the door open.”

“Very well; but moind you doan’t slip in the hoose and shet the door and leave me oot here. Oi’ll watch yo!” said Kit, who was always distrustful in the wrong place.

With a grating laugh Coyle left the cab and went up to the portals of Apsley House and rang.

A tall footman—looking like a grenadier in regimentals, except in his powdered head—opened the door, and a porter rose from his chair in the hall.

“I called to inquire after the duke’s health this morning,” said Coyle, in a low and respectful tone.

“His grace is better this morning. His grace passed a quiet night. Sir Henry Cooper saw his grace at a late hour,” answered the porter.

Brandon Coyle left his card and returned to the cab.

Poor Kit was already on the step, ready to get down.

“Resume your seat—SIT DOWN!” exclaimed Coyle, in a peremptory tone, seeing Kit hesitate.

“Beant the fam’ly oop yet? What slug a-beds they must be,” said Kit.

“The family are all out of town. Gone down to Brighton for my uncle’s health,” said Brandon, as he pushed Kit into her seat and placed himself beside her.

“Now, wot wull yo do?” inquired the crestfallen girl.

“Take lodgings until they return,” answered Coyle.

“And mek me a leddy?”

“Oh, yes; to be sure; make you a lady.”

“Where now, sir?” inquired the driver.

“To Church street, Chelsea,” answered Brandon Coyle; and the cab was in motion again.

All that little farce of going up and ringing at the door of Apsley House had been got up for the deception of poor Kit. And the temporary indisposition of the great duke—for whose health innumerable callers inquired through all the hours of the day—had afforded the opportunity.

Kit never suspected the deception, but she did inquire as they drove on towards Chelsea:

“Why cannot yo and me go doon to Brighting to um there?”

“Because I choose to wait for them here,” replied Coyle.

When they reached Church street, Chelsea, Brandon Coyle looked out and directed the driver to draw up before a neat red brick house of three stories that stood about the middle of the block.

He was met in the hall by the landlady.

“Well, Mrs. Perkins, are our apartments ready?”

“Quite so, sir,” answered the latter.

Brandon Coyle went back to the cab, helped Kit out, and led her into the house.

When both had got rid of the railroad dust and cinders, they met at the breakfast table, with such appetites gained in their long night ride as made them forget every other care in life but that of satisfying hunger.

It was while they were still at the table, that Coyle rang and requested the presence of Mrs. Perkins.

The landlady came promptly.

“This is my wife, Mrs. Brandon Coyle, Mrs. Perkins,” said the man.

“I’m sure I’m very proud to know the lady, sir!” said Mrs. Perkins, with a courtesy.

After breakfast the landlady and her guest went out in a cab together—not to Regent street or Oxford street, by any means, but to much cheaper and less fashionable quarters, where, nevertheless, to Kit’s inexperienced eyes, the splendor of the shops seemed to exceed the gorgeousness of all the palaces in all the fairy tales she had ever heard.

Brandon Coyle had given her thirty pounds at starting, and she brought back a carriage load of finery, but not one penny of the money.

In a paroxysm of almost breathless delight she made her toilet for an early dinner. She put on a pale blue silk dress, with white lace fichu and under-sleeves, and had her beautiful light hair dressed and tied back with bows of light-blue ribbon.

As the girl walked into the drawing-room her lover gazed at her in admiration and delight.

“How do yo loike me noo?” inquired Kit, with a radiant smile that lighted her blue eyes into splendor and enhanced her beauty immeasurably.

“I like you very much, Kit,” answered the young man, laughing at her, though he admired her.

At dinner Kit ate fast and voraciously, telling her companion to fill her soup plate _full_ and not put her off with two or three mouthfuls. She ate her soup audibly, with deep, grateful “ha’s” between each spoonful, and committed other atrocious crimes against good manners, much to the disgust of her “’usband,” who did not, however, venture to find fault with her, as he wished at present to keep her in a good humor.

Immediately after dinner he told Kit that he was going out on business, but would be back in an hour.

So Brandon Coyle threw himself into a cab and drove down to the city, and went into the Burlington Arcade, where he selected a “splendid” set of imitation sapphires, in imitation pearls and French gilt—a set which, had they been real, would have cost as many thousand as, being only imitation, they cost pounds.

He returned early, according to his promise, and found Kit standing at the window staring at the passers-by. She had no other occupation, poor soul.

“Kit,” he said, taking a seat, “I have bad news for you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “Is the old squoire dead? And must Oi tek off all these pretty things and wear ugly black?”

“No, not so bad as that; but the old squire is very ill at Brighton, and my sister has sent a telegram to say that I must come down to him immediately if I wish to see him alive.”

“Wull, then, we will go noo; but, moind yo, Oi’m no going to put off my pretty blue gownde with the long tail, and go in black for him—Oi’m no! The old squoire is none o’ my blood kin, only my fowk-in-law,” said Kit.

“Well, and you needn’t. But I must go away immediately, Kit. It is a long drive to London Bridge Station, where I wish to catch the six o’clock train.”

“Wull, Oi’ll be ready in a minute.”

“But you needn’t go, Kit. As you said, he’s no blood relation of yours.”

“Wull, he’s my fowk-in-law; besides, Oi want to go.”

“If you _go_, Kit, you cannot wear that pretty ‘gownde,’ you know. And you would have to wear black.”

“Oh!”

“Nor could you wear these splendid jewels. Look what I have brought you!” he said, taking the parcel that he had laid upon the mantel-shelf, untying it, and opening a red morocco casket lined with white satin, and displaying splendors that dazzled the eyes and dazed the brain of poor Kit.

“Be they moine?” exclaimed Kit, in a tone of enraptured awe, as she gloated over the treasures.

“Yes, yours. Let me clasp the necklace and bracelet on you,” answered Brandon Coyle, suiting the action to the word.

“Oh! but this Lunnun toon be a gret pleece! a gret pleece!” muttered Kit, in a voice of profound conviction, as she surveyed herself in the long mirror, after the highly amused Coyle had decorated her with the full set of flashing sham jewels.

“Yes, the greatest place in the world to produce such gems as these!” said the laughing man.

“They must cost a mint o’ munny.”

“Three—thousand—guineas!” slowly and gravely lied Coyle, for they had just cost three guineas, “and were very dear at that.”

“Eh! Gude save us! Oi dinnot know there was so much munny in all the wurld!”

“And now you know you have got that much on your own person, and now I hope you will believe that I love you and mean to make you a lady.”

“Oi’m thenking yo hev med me a leddy,” answered Kit, turning around and around between the window and the glass so that the light might set her “sapphires” in a blue blaze.

“And now you will let me go alone to my dying uncle. You would rather do so than take off all these beautiful things and put on your ugly old black gown to accompany me.”

“Ou ay, Oi would thet!” frankly acknowledged Kit.

“All right, then; I’ll go. My cab is at the door,” replied Coyle, eagerly seizing his hat.

“Hold on a minnut!” cried Kit.

“What now?” demanded Coyle, impatiently.

“Be these splendid things moine, for _sure_?”

“For sure.”

“And yo wunnot iver tek them away from me?”

“Never.”

“And ken Oi wear ’em all the toime?”

“Day and night, if you like.”

“Then Oi’ll wear ’em all the toime except when Oi’m in bed, and get the glide o’ them.”

“Just so. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m off. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye. When wull yo be beck?”

“To-morrow, or next day, as soon as all is over,” answered Brandon Coyle, from the stairs.

For the first few days of her “’usband’s” absence Kit seemed happy enough in wearing and enjoying her fine clothes.

She gloried in the possession of no less than four silk dresses—all thin, flimsy, and cheap, but of delicate and beautiful colors, well suited to her own lovely complexion. And sometimes she put on all four of these, one after another, in a day.

In this way she amused herself for several days, and then grew weary of the monotony.

Late one night Kit was surprised by the return of her “’usband,” who told her that his uncle was still very low at Brighton, his death being expected every hour, and that he, Brandon Coyle, had only run up to town to tell her this, and that he would have to go back by an early train the next morning.

“Whoy dunnot yo tek me doon to moy fowk-in-law, at Brighton? Oi’m tired of my loife, biding here and seeing nubbuddy and doing nothing!” demanded Kit.

“Because there’s fatal illness in the house and you would be in the way. Besides, do you know what is the matter with my uncle?”

“Noa!”

“He’s got the small-pox!”

“Save us and sain us!” cried the girl, turning pale with terror. “Keep your distance then! Oi’m no moind to hev moy beauty spoiled by _yo_!”

“Don’t be afraid! I took a bath in the sea and put on a complete new suit of clothes before I came here,” replied Brandon Coyle, laughing.

And so he trifled with the credulity and fears of the simple creature, who believed him or not, as her mood happened to be.

The next morning Coyle left her again.

In her misery she went and made a confidant of her landlady, telling the good woman frankly of her own humble origin and of her secret marriage, of her impatience to be introduced to her “fowk-in-law,” and of her “’usband’s” threat to shut her up in a mad-house.

Three days after this, on a dark and drizzling morning in December, Kit sat, as we have described her, dressed out in her light-blue silk, white lace fichu, and “sapphire” and “pearl” jewels, leaning on the window-sill and looking out upon the dreary street, and wishing herself back at Miston, when, without warning, the door opened and Brandon Coyle strode into the room.

He was just off a night journey from that terrible scene that ensued upon reading the Earl of Altofaire’s will, immediately after his lordship’s funeral, which ended in the exhibition of poor Kit’s ill-spelled letter to Lady Arielle Montjoie, and the consequent exposure of Brandon Coyle’s evil deed, and the destruction of all his hopes.

Kit started with surprise at his sudden appearance, and arose to meet him; but shrank back again appalled by the pallid skin, set teeth, lowering brow and gleaming black eyes that seemed to pierce her through.

His face was the face of a fiend, and there was _murder_ in his eyes as he glared at the ignorant, half idiotic beauty, who, with all her simplicity, had contrived to confound all his plans and destroy all his prospects.

“Gude Lord! Wot’s the matter? Is the old squoire deed?” inquired Kit, who had never in all her life seen such a terrible look on any human face, and could not read it aright.

“Yes—the—old squire is dead,” replied the man, struggling hard to compose his tell-tale features to their ordinary expression; for, until he had met the girl’s affrighted eyes, and heard her exclamation, he had been unconscious of how much his face betrayed him and terrified her.

He did not wish to alarm her; to have done that would have interfered with his immediate plans in regard to her. He must now quiet her terrors, by putting her thoughts on the false scent that she herself had suggested.

“Yes,” he repeated, “the old man is dead, and he died a dreadful death. I cannot get over it,” and with this he walked to the farthest window and looked out, to conceal his face from her until he could compose it.

“Ou, weel,” said Kit, kindly, “dinna tek it so very haard. He _was_ an old mon, and beloike his toime had come.”

“Yes,” said Coyle, without looking around. “And his going off just now certainly makes everything easy for us. I am his heir. I can walk right in and take possession of Caveland now, and take you with me.”

“Oh, when?” exclaimed Kit, eagerly.

“Immediately. You must go and get ready to leave London with me by the four o’clock train this afternoon. We are to go down to Caveland, where the remains have been sent and where the funeral is to take place. I am going out on business, but will return for you in time.”

“Oi wull go pack up at once!” exclaimed Kit, hurrying from the room.

He looked after her as she disappeared, again with murder in his eyes—

“While in his thoughts her hours were numbered.”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]