Kit and Kitty: A Story of West MiddlesexBlackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
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Kit and Kitty: A Story of West Middlesex
Blackmore, R. D. (Richard Doddridge)
Middlesex (England) -- Fiction
That coat was henceforth sacred to me. There may have been smarter and
grander coats, coats with more tone of high art about them, and of
sleeker and richer substance. But this coat was enriched for ever with
at least three tears from Kitty’s eyes, Kitty’s lovely hair had fallen
like a vernal shower upon it, and her true heart had quivered to it,
when she owned whose heart it was. I knew that it might be my duty now
to start a new coat of loftier order, to keep me abreast of my rise in
the world, as the son of a celebrated man; nevertheless this would be
the coat to look back upon and look up to, as it hung upon a holy peg,
with the pockets full of lavender.
I had said farewell to my dear love, and was just beginning to think
how I would come it over Uncle Corny, telling him a bit, and then
another bit, and leading him on to laugh at me, until I should come out
with news which would make him snap his favourite pipe—when suddenly,
near the Captain’s gate, I felt a sharp tug from behind. The dusk was
gathering, and I meant to put my best foot foremost, and walk all the
way to Sunbury, scarcely feeling the road beneath my feet.
“What do you want, little chap?” I asked, for it was not in my power
then to speak rudely to any living creature, although I was vexed at
losing time.
“If you please, young man, my lady says that you are to come back and
speak to her. You are to come with me to the door over there. And you
must be careful how you scrape your boots.”
I looked at the boy, and felt inclined to laugh. He was dressed in
green from head to foot, and two or three dozen gilt buttons shone
in a double row down the front of him. For a moment I doubted about
obeying, until it occurred to me that if I refused, my sin might be
visited upon another. So I turned and followed the page, who seemed
to think disobedience impossible. He led me to a door at the west end
of the house, and then up a little staircase to a fine broad passage,
with statues and pictures looking very grand indeed. Before I could
take half of it into my mind, he opened a door with carved work upon
it, and showed me into the grandest room I had ever entered, except in
show places, such as Hampton Court, or Windsor Castle. All this part of
the house was so different from the other end that I was amazed, when I
came to think of it.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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