Richard Blackmore - Kit and Kitty - A Story of West Middlesex

Probably it would have made the worst of me, and left me to die an old bachelor, if it had not been for a little chance, such as no one would think much of. Time was drawing on, without a sign of sunshine in it; when to pick up a very small crumb of comfort, and recall the happiest day I had ever known yet, I went to my cupboard, and pulled out a simple sketch in water colours, which I had made of the stricken pear-tree; after some one had made of it the luckiest tree that ever died. She had not finished her work of art, partly through sweet talk with me; and I hoped to surprise her and compare our portraits, when she should come to complete her drawing. Now as I glanced, and sighed, and gazed, and put in a little touch with listless hands, my good genius stood behind me, in the form of a little old woman, holding in one hand a bucket, and in the other a scrubbing-brush.

“Lor’, how bootiful ’e have dooed ’un!” Tabby Tapscott cried, as if she would like to have a turn at it with her reeking brush. “A can zee every crinkle crankum of they leaveses, and a girt bumble-drum coom to sniff at ’un. Her cudn’t do ’un half so natteral as thiccy, if her was to coom a dizen taimes, for kissy-kissy talk like. Think I didn’t clap eyes upon ’e both? Good as a plai it wor, and the both of ’e vancying nobbody naigh! Lor’, I niver zee nort more amoosin!”

“Then all I can say is, you ought to have that bucket of slops thrown over you. What business of yours, you inquisitive old creature?”

“That be vaine manners after arl as I dooed, to vetch ’un here for you to carr’ on with! Ha, ha, ha, I cud tell ’e zummat now, if so be I was mainded to. But I reckon ’e wud goo to drow boocket auver Tabby?”

This renewed my courtesy at once, for I had great faith in Tabby’s devices; and after some coying, and the touch of a crooked sixpence, she told me her plan, which was simplicity itself, so that I wondered at my own dulness. I was to find out where Captain Fairthorn lived, which could be done with the greatest ease; and then to call and make a point of seeing him, on the plea of presenting him with a perfect copy, such as his daughter had no time to finish. Who could tell that good luck might not afford me a glimpse at, or even a few words with, the one who was never absent from my mind? And supposing there were no such bliss as that, at least I could get some tidings of her, and possibly find a chance of doing something more. Be it as it might, I could make things no worse; and anything was better than this horrible suspense. I consulted my uncle about this little scheme, and he readily fell in with it; for he could not bear to see me going about my work as if my heart were not in it, and searching the papers in dread of bad news every morning. And finding that I could be of use to him in London, he proposed that I should go that very night in the fruit-van, with Selsey Bill, and the thief-boy – that is to say, the boy who kept watch against thieves, of whom there are scores in the market.

When I found my way, towards the middle of the day, to that wild weald – as it then was – of London, which is now a camp of Punch-and-Judy boxes strung with balconies, it took me some minutes to become convinced that I was not in a hop-ground turned upside down. Some mighty contractor was at work in a breadth and depth of chaos; and countless volcanoes of piled clay, which none but a demon could have made to burn, were uttering horizontal fumes, not at all like honest smoke in texture, but tenfold worse to cope with. Some thousands of brawny navvies, running on planks (at the head pirate’s order) with skeleton barrows before them, had contrived (with the aid of ten thousand tin pots) to keep their throats clear and their insides going. Not one of them would stop to tell me where I was; all gave a nod and went on barrowing; perhaps they were under conditions, such as occur to most of us in the barrow-drive of life, when to pause for a moment is to topple over.

After shouting in vain to these night-capped fellows, I saw through the blue mist of drifting poison, a young fellow, perhaps about twenty-one, who seemed to be clerk of the works, or something; and I felt myself fit to patronize him, being four or five years his elder, and at least to that amount his bigger. But for his better he would not have me, and snapped in such a style that I seemed to belong almost to a past generation. “Fairthorn?” he said. “Yes, I may have heard of him. Elderly gent – wears goggles, and goes in for thunderbolts. Don’t hang out here, stops business. Three turns to the left, and ask the old applewoman.”

I was much inclined to increase his acquaintance with apples, by giving him one to his eye – external, and not a treasure; but before I could even return his contempt, he was gone, and left me in the wilderness. At last I found a boy who was looking after pots, and for twopence he not only led me truly, but enlightened me largely as to this part of the world. He showed me where the “Great Shebissun” was to be, and how all the roads were to be laid out, and even shook his head (now twelve years old) as to the solvency of this “rum rig.” He dismissed me kindly – with his salary doubled – at the gate of the great philosopher; and with his finger to his nose gave parting counsel.

“Best not go in, young man. The old codger can blow you to bits, by turning a handle, and the old cat’ll scratch your wig off. But there’s a stunnin’ gal – ah, that’s what you’re after! I say, young covey, if you’re game for a bit of sweet’artin’ on the sly, I’ll show yer the very nick for it.” He pointed to a gate between two old trees, and overhung with ivy. “How does I know?” he said, anticipating briskly any doubt on my part; “s’help me taters, it’s the only place round here as I never took a pot of beer to.”

Anxious as I was, I smiled a little at this criterion of a trysting-place, and then did my utmost to fix in mind the bearings of this strange neighbourhood. Although I knew the busy parts of London well enough, of the vast spread of out-skirts I knew little, except the ups and downs of the great roads through them, and here and there a long look-out from the top of Notting Hill, or any other little eminence. Even so I had only lost my eyes in a mighty maze of things to come, and felt a deep wonder of pity for the builders, who were running up houses they could never fill. The part I was now exploring lay between the two great western roads, and was therefore to me an unknown land. But I felt pretty sure that the house now before me had been quite lately a mere country mansion, with grounds not overlooked, and even meadows of its own, where cows might find it needful to low to one another, and a horse might go a long way to find a gate to scratch against.

Even now there was a cattle-pond (the dregs of better days) near the gate that led up from the brickfields; and half a dozen ancient Scotch firs leaned in a whispering attitude towards one another; perhaps they alone were left of a goodly group, trembling at every axe that passed. The house itself was long, low, and red, and full of little windows, upon whose sills a straggling ilex leaned its elbows here and there, and sparrows held a lively chivvy. There was not a flower in the beds in front, and the box-edging of the walks was as high and broad as a wheel-barrow. Two large cedars, one at either corner of the sodden grass-plot, looked like mighty pencils placed to mark the extent of the building.

Descrying no one (except an ancient dog of mighty stature, and of some race unknown to me, who came up in a friendly manner) I summoned all my courage, with good manners at the back of it, and pulled a great bell-handle hanging, like a butcher’s steelyard, between two mossy piers of stone. There was no sound of any bell inside, and I was counting the time for another pull, when the door was opened some few inches, and sharp black eyes peered out at me.