as for the state of my mind, i can say no more about it than i have said already.
if i can trust my memory i may, however, mention that my thoughts were now more busy with miss urban than with her niece. i had turned a deaf ear to mira’s entreaties at the time; but they had their own irresistible influence when i found myself alone; and they led me to the conviction that the schoolmistress must be answerable for what had befallen me since i entered her house. how was she answerable? to find the right reply to this, was the one obstacle that no effort of mine could overcome. there was a provocation in constantly trying, and constantly failing, to hit on a reasonable interpretation of what mira had said, which ended in making me too restless to remain in my place of repose. i left the pleasant shade, and wandered away; still battling with my difficulties, and neither knowing nor caring whither i went.
on a sudden, i found myself called back to present things, oddly enough, by a pull at my coat-tail.
looking around, i discovered a little boy who seemed to be about five or six years of age — a really pretty child, with bright merry eyes and beautiful dark red hair. here no doubt was the fatal creature who had caused me such suffering when i heard who his mother was. if he had not spoken first, i am afraid i should have gone on without taking any notice of him.
‘do come, sir, and see my garden.’
he took hold of my hand as he preferred that request, and he looked up in my face with a smile, so innocent and so pretty, that herod himself must have felt the charm of it.
we took the way to his garden, ‘my little man,’ i said, ‘suppose you tell me your name?’
‘the boys call me blazes — because of my red hair.’
‘have you no other name besides that?’
‘yes; i’m kit.’
‘well, kit, and who do you belong to?’
‘i belong to aunt urban.’
‘have you got no father and mother?’
‘i don’t know that i’ve got a father. they tell me mother lives far away, somewhere.’
‘have you any playfellows?’
the child shook his head: ‘i’m left to play by myself. here’s my garden.’
it was a barren little spot in a corner between two walls. kit’s pride in his few sickly-looking flowers, and his small crookedly directed walks, might have made some people laugh; it made me feel readier to cry.
‘i hope you like my garden?’ the boy said.
‘indeed i do like it.’
‘and you call me a good boy?’
‘yes, certainly.’
‘i like to be praised — i don’t get much of it,’ poor little kit confessed. he took up his small toy spade. ‘i want to make a new walk. you’re a goodnatured fellow. will you help me?’
i marked out the course of a new path, and left him hard at work on it. the sooner we separated the better it would be for me: the poor boy innocently embittered my mind against the mother who had deserted him — who had ignored his existence at the very time when she had promised to be my wife. i was afraid to go back to her until i had mastered my own indignation by the help of time.
walking straight on, and still failing to compose myself, experience reminded me of the comforting and companionable friend of man through the journey of life. in a moment more, my pipe and pouch were in my hand — but i had lost or mislaid the means of lighting the tobacco. while i was still vainly searching my pockets, i noticed a thin blue column of smoke rising through a clump of trees on my left hand. advancing in that direction, i reached the limit of the grounds and discovered a gate with the customary lodge by the side of it.
an old woman was knitting at an open window. i asked her if she would kindly give me a light for my pipe.
‘surely, sir,’ was the cheerful reply. ‘please come round to the door.’
she was waiting for me on the threshold. when i approached her, she lifted her withered brown hands in amazement. her brightening face made her look ten years younger directly. ‘lord bless us and save us, mr fencote, don’t you know me?’
i was near enough to her now to make a likely guess. ‘not mrs jennet?’ i said.
‘come in, sir! come in! who but mrs jennet should it be?’ she insisted on placing me in her own arm chair; and she spoke of her grandson, ‘thriving and married and happy, when he might have been dead at the bottom of the sea, sir, but for you.’ i listened with every appearance of interest that i could command, and flattered myself that i had concealed the state of my mind from the good old soul who was so honestly glad to see me. it soon appeared that i was mistaken.
‘you don’t look like your own bright and cheery self, sir. has anything happened to trouble you at the school-house?’
‘yes,’ i said, ‘something has happened to trouble me.’
why i suddenly changed my mind, and owned the truth in this offhand way, i hardly know. people sometimes act on impulses which they are not themselves able to explain. that i had no distinct purpose in view, i am quite sure; the result that i produced took me completely by surprise.
my old friend eyed me attentively. ‘any misunderstanding, sir, between my mistress and you?’ she asked. ‘i make no doubt you’re a friend of miss urban’s, or why should you be here in the grounds?’
‘i can’t call myself a friend of miss urban,’ i said; ‘i was only introduced to her about an hour ago.’
the temperature of mrs jennet’s curiosity rose a little higher.
‘will it be considered a liberty,’ she went on, ‘if i ask who made you and miss urban known to one another?’
now, when it was probably too late, prudence suggested the necessity of speaking with reserve. i refrained from mentioning mira’s name.
‘the person who introduced me,’ i answered, ‘was a young lady.’
mrs jennet’s eyes fastened on me with an expression of dismay; mrs jennet’s voice sank to a whisper.
‘miss urban’s niece?’ she said.
‘yes.’
‘perhaps some relation of yours?’
‘she may be.’
‘may be? what does that mean?’
‘it means that she may be a very near relation of mine — if i marry her.’
that reply put an end to all further hesitation, on mrs jennet’s side and on mine. ‘i know what has happened now,’ she said; ‘as well as if i had seen you and heard you. mr fencote, i warned my mistress, at the time, that she might expect to meet with some such ill-luck as the misfortune that has fallen on her now. when that telegram surprised us with the news that her niece was coming, i resisted temptation; i didn’t say “i told you so” — i only thought it. ha! i don’t doubt that you have been hardly dealt with. but there’s another person — you know who she is! — whom i pity more than i pity you. no! you mustn’t tempt me to enter into particulars. what am i to do,’ the poor woman asked, ‘between you who saved my grandson’s life, and my mistress who trusts me after thirty years spent in her service? why don’t you ask the young lady to tell you that miserable story?’
‘i don’t want to distress the young lady,’ i said. ‘my temper is quieter by this time. i find i’m too fond of my darling to desert her. whether you take me into your confidence, or whether you don’t — i’ll marry her all the same.’
mrs jennet seemed to be strongly impressed by this.
‘upon you soul, sir?’ she said solemnly.
‘upon my soul,’ i answered.
what had i done to make the good old dame as reckless of consequences as i was, let others find out. ‘light your pipe,’ she said; ‘and i’ll tell you all about it.’
