Kitty – I say, I shall call you Kitty, you know – you can’t expect to be well moping upstairs in your room. I’ll soon put you right, better than that solemn-looking Doctor. You want to be out in the woods and fields. I know the country about here splendidly. I say, you ride, don’t you?”
“I? No.”
“Then I’ll teach you. Get your old maid to make you a good long skirt – that will do for a riding-habit at first – I’ll clap the side-saddle on my cob, and soon show you how to ride like a plucky girl should. I say, Kitty, I’ll hold you on at first – tight.”
The speaker smiled at her, and the girl shrank from him, but he did not see it.
“You’ll soon ride, and then you and I will have the jolliest of times together. I’ll make you ride so that by this time next year you’ll follow the hounds, and top a hedge with the best of them.”
“Oh, no, I have no wish to ride, Claud.”
“Yes, you have. You think so now, because you’re a bit down; but you wait till you’re on the cob, and then you’ll never want to come off. I don’t. I say, you haven’t seen me ride.”
“No, Claud; but I must go now.”
“You mustn’t, coz. I’m going to rouse you up. I say, though, I don’t want to brag, but I can ride – anything. I always get along with the first flight, and a little thing like you after I’ve been out with you a bit will astonish some of them. I shall keep my eye open, and the first pretty little tit I see that I think will suit you, I shall make the guv’nor buy.”
“I beg that you will not, Claud.”
“That’s right, do. Go down on your poor little knees and beg, and I’ll get the mount for you all the same. I know what will do you good and bring the blood into your pretty cheeks. No, no, don’t be in such a hurry. I won’t let you go upstairs and mope like a bird with the pip. You never handled a gun, I suppose?”
“No, never,” said Kate, half angrily now; “of course not.”
“Then you shall. You can have my double-barrel that father bought for me when I was a boy. It’s light as a feather, comes up to the shoulder splendidly, and has no more kick in it than a mouse. I tell you what, if it’s fine this afternoon you shall put on thick boots and a hat, and we’ll walk along by the fir plantations, and you shall have your first pop at a pheasant.”
“I shoot at a pheasant!” cried Kate in horror.
“Shoo!” exclaimed Claud playfully. “Yes, you have your first shot at a pheasant. Shuddering? That’s just like a London girl. How horrid, isn’t it?”
“Yes, horrible for a woman.”
“Not a bit of it. You’ll like it after the first shot. You’ll be ready enough to shove in the cartridges with those little hands, and bring the birds down. I say, I’ll teach you to fish, too, and throw a fly. You’ll like it, and soon forget all the mopes. You’ve been spoiled; but after a month or two here you won’t know yourself. Don’t be in such a hurry, Kitty.”
“Don’t hold my hand like that, Claud; I must really go now,” said Kate, whose troubled face was clouded with wonder, vexation, and something approaching fear. “I really wish to go into the house.”
“No, you don’t; you want to stop with me. I shan’t have a chance to talk to you again, with old Garstang here. I say, I saw you come out to have this little walk up and down here. I was watching and came after you to show you the way about the grounds.”
“It was very kind of you, Claud. Thank you; but let me go in now.”
“Shan’t I don’t get a chance to have a walk with such a girl as you every day. I am glad you’ve come. It makes our house seem quite different.”
“Thank you for saying so – but I feel quite faint now.”
“More need for you to stop in the fresh air. You faint, and I’ll bring you to again with a kiss. That’s the sort of thing to cure a girl who faints.”
She looked at him in horror and disgust, as he burst into a boisterous laugh.
“I suppose old Garstang isn’t a bad sort but we don’t much like him here. I say, what do you think of Harry Dasent?”
“I – I hardly know,” said Kate, who was trying her best to get back along the path by some laurels to where the conservatory door by the drawing-room stood open. “I have seen so little of him.”
“So much the better for you. He’s not a bad sort of a fellow for men to know, but he’s an awful cad with girls. Not a bit of a gentleman. You won’t see much more of him, though, for the guv’nor says he won’t have him here. I say, a month ago it would have made me set up on bristles, because I want him for a mate, but I don’t mind now you’ve come. We’ll be regular pals, and go out together everywhere. I’ll soon show you what country life is. Oh, well, if you will go in now I won’t stop you. I’ll go and have the little gun cleaned up, and – I say, come round the other way; I haven’t shown you the dogs.”
“No, no – not now, please, Claud. I really am tired out and faint.”
He still kept her hand tightly under his arm, in spite of her effort to withdraw it, and followed her into the conservatory, which was large and well-filled with ornamental shrubs and palms.
“Well, you do look a bit tired, dear, but it becomes you. I say, I am so glad you’ve come. What a pretty little hand this is. You’ll give me a kiss before you go?”
She started from him in horror.
“Nobody can’t see here. Just one,” he whispered, as he passed his arm round her waist; and before she could struggle free he had roughly kissed her twice.
“Um-m-m,” exclaimed Mrs Wilton, in a soft simmering way. “Claud, Claud, my dear, shocking, shocking! Oh, fie, fie, fie! You shouldn’t, you know. Anyone would think you were an engaged couple.”
“Aunt, dear!” cried Kate, in an agitated voice, as she clung to that lady, but no further words would come.
“Oh, there, there, my dear, don’t look like that,” cried Mrs Wilton. “I’m not a bit cross. Why, you’re all of a flutter. I wasn’t blaming you, my dear, only that naughty Claud. It was very rude of him, indeed. Really, Claud, my dear, it is not gentlemanly of you. Poor Kate is quite alarmed.”
“Then you shouldn’t have come peeping,” cried the oaf, with a boisterous laugh.
“Claud! for shame! I will not allow it. It is not respectful to your mamma. Now, come in, both of you. Mr Garstang is here – with your father, Claud, my love; and I wish you to be very nice and respectful to him, for who knows what may happen? Kate, my dear, I never think anything of money, but when one has rich relatives who have no children of their own, I always say that we oughtn’t to go out of our way to annoy them. Henry Dasent certainly is my sister’s child, but one can’t help thinking more of one’s own son; and as Harry is nothing to Mr Garstang, I can’t see how he can help remembering Claud very strongly in his will.”
“Doesn’t Claud wish he may get it!” cried that youth, with a grin. “I’m not going to toady old Garstang for the sake of his coin.”
“Nobody wishes you to, my dear;
