“But for such a purpose,” returned Kit. “To bring back Miss Nell! To see her again! Only think of that! I am so pleased too to think that you will see her, Barbara, at last.”
Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no great gratification on this point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one little toss of her head, that Kit was quite disconcerted, and wondered in his simplicity why she was so cool about it.
“You’ll say she has the sweetest and beautifullest face you ever saw, I know,” said Kit, rubbing his hands. “I’m sure you’ll say that!”
Barbara tossed her head again.
“What’s the matter, Barbara?” said Kit.
“Nothing,” cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted—not sulkily, or in an ugly manner, but just enough to make her look more cherry-lipped than ever.
There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant now—he had his lesson by heart all at once—she was the book—there it was before him as plain as print.
“Barbara,” said Kit, “you’re not cross with me?”
Oh dear no! Why should Barbara be cross? And what right had she to be cross? And what did it matter whether she was cross or no? Who minded her!
“Why, I do,” said Kit. “Of course I do.”
Barbara didn’t see why it was of course, at all.
Kit was sure she must. Would she think again?
Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn’t see why it was of course. She didn’t understand what Christopher meant. And besides she was sure they wanted her upstairs by this time, and she must go, indeed—
“No, but Barbara,” said Kit, detaining her gently, “let us part friends. I was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn’t been for you.”
Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she coloured—and when she trembled, like a little shrinking bird!
“I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my word, but not half so strong as I could wish,” said Kit, earnestly. “When I want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell, it’s only because I should like you to be pleased with what pleases me—that’s all. As to her, Barbara, I think I could almost die to do her service, but you would think so too if you knew her as I do. I am sure you would.”
Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent.
“I have been used, you see,” said Kit, “to talk and think of her, almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out her hand and saying, ‘It’s my own old Kit,’ or some such words as those—like what she used to say. I think of seeing her happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, and as she ought to be. When I think of myself, it’s as her old servant; and one that loved her dearly, as his kind, good, gentle mistress; and who would have gone—yes, and still would go—through any harm to serve her. Once I couldn’t help being afraid that if she came back with friends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having known, a humble lad like me, and so speak coldly, which would have cut me, Barbara, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I felt sure that I was doing her wrong in this; and so I went on as I did at first, hoping to see her once more, just as she used to be. Hoping this, and remembering what she was, has made me feel as if I would always try to please her, and always be what I should like to seem to her if I was still her servant. If I’m the better for that—and I don’t think I’m the worse—I am grateful to her for it; and love and honour her the more. That’s the plain honest truth, dear Barbara, upon my word it is!”
Little Barbara was not of a wayward or capricious nature, and being full of remorse, melted into tears. To what further conversation this might have led, we need not stop to inquire; for the wheels of the carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smart ring at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, which had laid dormant for a short time, to burst again into tenfold life and vigour.
Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr. Chuckster in a hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discharged, he subsided into the bosom of the family; and entertaining himself with a strolling or peripatetic breakfast, watched with a genteel indifference the process of loading the carriage.
“Snobby’s in this I see, sir?” he said to Mr. Abel Garland. “I thought he wasn’t in the last trip because it was expected that his presence wouldn’t be very acceptable to the ancient buffalo.”
“To whom, sir?” demanded Mr. Abel.
“To the old gentleman,” returned Mr. Chuckster, slightly abashed.
“Our client prefers to take him now,” said Mr. Abel, drily. “There is no longer any need for that precaution, as my father’s relationship to a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have full confidence, will be a sufficient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand.”
“Ah!” thought Mr. Chuckster, looking out of window, “anybody but me! Snobby before me, of course. He didn’t happen to take that particular five-pound note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he’s always up to something
