Democratic Sentinel, Volume 7, Number 12, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 April 1883 — MRS. RAYMOND'S KITTY; [ARTICLE]

MRS. RAYMOND'S KITTY;

Or, a Bohemian Girl.

BY MAY FORD LAUREL.

“Mrs. Raymond’s Kitty, sir,” says James. A hot, burning morning in June — that month of roses, and dust, and burning heat. Scene—a street where the sun glistens fiercely upon sharp area railings, basks on shining leaden roofs and wilts the gay flowers in the gardens poor faded beauties, they hang down their heads on their frail stalks, or lean languidly against the dry, rocky pyramidal “mounds” that occupy a prominent place in every wellkept garden! Jack Everett looks out from one of the side windows of his boarding-house parlor,-and surveys the street without, the garden below and the residence pertaining to the garden; or, to speak moreftorrectly, the residence to which the garden pertains. Heat—baking, burning, melting heat—reigns over all. The lace curtains in the neighboring ?>arlor windows hang limp and motion-, ess. unstirred by the faintest breeze; in tne dusty street two huckster women, whose toilets are gotten up with a delightful disregard for conventionalities, stroll lazily on, forbearing to extol their wares; a dog, with limp tail and sweeping ears, passes disconsolately by, evidently in search of a shady spot; a portly old gentleman toils down the sidewalk, brushing the drops from his bald forehead, with a damp cambric handkerchief. Heat —fierce, oppressive heat—everywhere. But, in the midst of it all, there rises a voice—sweet, swelling,, clear and cool; cool as the flow of a rivulet, that slips, and slides, and bubbles, and ripples somewhere, under a dark roof of hanging boughs, where no burning sunshine can enter in; a fearless, free, voice, bursting out from somebody’s heart, there by the open street, singing a fragment from Balfe, with exquisitely musical defiance.

Jack Everett, in mingled astonishment and pleasure—he is a lover of melody—leans further out of the window, listening intently. And then the door opens and James enters (the genteel, irreproachable, debonnaire James always found in the orthodox boardinghouse), and, seeing Jack’s bewilderment, smiles in a superior way. “Mrs. Raymond’s Kitty, sir,” he observes. “Mrs. Raymond’s what?” inquires Jack. “Kitty, sir,” James explains, amiably. “A housemaid she is, and a werry nice young woman to look at, and quite well-behaved; which she is werry lively, however, sir and, with a parting smile, James vanishes. The song had ceased, and Jack turns from the window with a feeling of disappointment. “A housemaid; ‘a werry nice young woman,’ the possessor of that voice! It is against the laws of nature,” thinks Jack. Jack Everett is a law student and the possessor of an independent, though Inot extensive, fortune. He goes into the best society of his native town and is gladly received there. He is an orphan and his own master. For the Test, he has seen but two-and-twenty years, is tall and straight and blueeyed, with* a fair and frank face and .winning smile. He cannot be styled a brilliant, far less an industrious student; but he is true and manly, lighthearted and happy, and, unconsciously and without the least effort, wins the good will and admiration of those about ftirn. Instead of burying himself like a bookworm among his calfskin volumes, he flaunts like a butterfly at balls, garden-parties and tennis clubs, where Ehing misses adore him, flirt with i, fall in love with him, pet him and ca much of him, and where the young men call him a capital fellow and a jolly boy. Jack is still in full possesjflipn of his heart, but common fame has peen fit to bestow it upon Miss Lilias (Raymond, a young lady eligible in every ,way and as dark and dignified as Jack, is fair and merry, and therefore a suit‘toble match for Him. Jack, who is a chivalrous young man, and utterly callous and hardened to the persistent banterings of his friends, never contradicted this report, while Miss Lilias receives the insinuations and innuendoes of her companions with an amiable sitlence, supposed to give consent. In point of fact, the lady has tried valiantly enough to take by storm or by stratagem the heart of the handsome young barrister that is to be; but Jack being rather an obstinate youth, has reifused to yield it up, and still remains [fancy free. Lilias is about Jack’s age, relie only child of a banker lately derceased, and resides with her mother, 'the Mrs. Raymond above mentioned as Ithe proprietress of Kitty. When Jack took up his abode in the boarding-house adjacent to Mrs. Raymond’s domains, Mrs. Grundy was heard to observe that the young man was not without intentions. On the afternoon of the same day upon .which Jack heard the housemaid’s song, having become aweary of legal researches, and arriving at the conclusion that he needs relaxation and 'rest, the hopeful young law-student , goes to call upon the Raymonds. Their residence is very near, and Jack, who is of rather an indolent temperament, objects to long walks. At the door he is met by Charles, who tells him that the ladies are hout, but that they will soon be hin, and remarks that perhaps Mr. Heverett will walk hup. Mr. Everett walks up, and into Mrs. Raymond’s drawing-room. The apartment opens upon a little balcony by a French window, and, being well acquainted with the pictures, scrap-books and albums scattered about, Jack goes to the window and looks out. And seated on the balcony steps he sees a young lady—-the youngest of young . ladies —the sweetest embodiment of sweet sixteen, her form of sylph-like ?Nl .v >,

the folds of her dress. A critical eye might notice that the dress—a pink print— hraadly faded, and that the little boot has a hole in it; but Jack’s gaze is bent upon the glory of golden chestnut hair, that falls in, waves, and rings and curls over her shoulders—the lovely head bowed over the needlework of some sort, which she holds in her hands—the soft outline of a blushrose cheek. A book falls from an etagere by the window, accidentally pushed off by Jack’s arm, and the young lady turns round, and Everett sees that her featnres are perfect; her lips exquisite in their crimson bloom, and dimpled loveliness; her forehead ljread and white, and half covered by tumbled, golden curls; her eyes sweet and starry. “It is not polite to stare at any one,” says the beauty, delivering this piece of information coolly. “I beg your pardon,” says Jack, blushing ingenuously, “but I couldn’t help it. There is no one here to introduce us, so, may I introduce myself? I am Jack Everett.” “I know who you are, ” says the young lady, severely. “I’ve seen you before.” “Have you?” says Jack. “Pretty queer, because I’ve never seen you; if I had I shouldn’t have forgotten you. Are you staying here ?” “I am;” with a delicious smile. “Glad to hear it,” says Jack, “because I live next door. ” “I know that, too,” remarks his companion, smiling again, this time with an amused, rather mocking expression on her curling lips. “You frighten me,” says Jack. “You seem to know all about me, and I know nothing at all of you, except—you haven’t even told me your name”—with an accent of deep reproach. “Why should I?” coquettishly. “Because I want to know it,” says Jack, eagerly. “Haven’t I introduced myself? I’m waiting for you to do the same. ”

“Wait awhile,” amiably; “some other time I will—perhaps.” “What a little flirt she is!” thinks Jack. She is standing before him, looking down a little and playing with a pink moss-rose in her belt. “Give me that flower, won’t you?” says Jack, softly and almost timidly. "He is not constitutionally timid. The girl smiles, and takes it from her belt and holds it up. But as Jack bends down to take it, he sees her flush crimson and crush the flower back into her little hand. “No, I will not,” she says. “I would not give it to you for the world!” And so saying, slie drops the inoffending blossom over the balustrade. Jack is not accustomed to being treated in this way. For an instant, he is inclined to feel indignant; then, conquering this short-lived wrath, he runs down the steps, picks up the rose, and, crushed and dirty thing as it is, he lays it, rather tenderly, in his wastcoat pocket. Returning to his former place, he regards the wayward fairy in a way that is half-triumphant, half-embar-rassed. “Do you sing, Mr. Everett?” she says at last, to break the growing silence. “Never could turn a tune in my life,” says Jack, frankly. “Do you?” “Yes.” “Do sing for me, then,” says Jack, glancing toward the piano within. “Come!” offering his arm and inwardly hoping that she will take it. “Not much!” is the elegant reply he receives. Jack reflects that this is not a phrase employed by the young ladies of his acquaintance. Then he wonders why it is not, since it is a thing so consummately bewitching on the lips of this one. “Mr. Everett!” she says suddenly. “I am going to introduce myself to you!” “I am all attention, ” says Jack. And then the young lady casts down her sweet eyes with intense humility, and executes a cohrtesy —one of those peculiar, bobbing courtesies which domestics are wont to make in the presence of their betters. “If you please, sir, I’m the housemaid, and my name is Kitty l” 1

A feeling of shame takes possession of Jack’s breast; he is quite silerd. Then he says impulsively and thougntlessly, “I can’t believe you I”. “How much less polite, ” observes Kitty, apparently addressing herself to the cat, who sits on the step, blinking intelligently, “a gentleman is to a servant girl than to a young lady!” Then turning to Jack: “I am the housemaid, Mr. Everett; I am indeed. ” And then she laughs—a laugh that is full of sweet merriment, and yet has in it a distant ring of pain. “Are you not ashamed of yourself to have talked so to a servant girl, a housemaid? Good-by!” And before Everett has time to speak one word, she flies down the balcony steps, through the garden gate and is lost hopelessly in the labyrinthine domains of the kitchen. A servant girl 1 This proudlooking beauty who might have been The daughter of a hundred Earls, to see her Partician grace, her flowerlike loveliness, her curling lips and flashing eyes, and the “golden glory of her hair!” A servant girl! One of those beings who sweep and dust uproariously, in short gowns and caps; who bring a young man his shaving hot-water every morning, and suggest that they be “tipped” in return; who coquette with stable-boys, and are proud to be winked at by the more elevated butlers and footmen; who insist upon their “Sundays out,” and, if allowed, entertain their “fellow” in the kitchen of nights! A rustle and sweep of drapery; Miss Lilias Raymond enters the parlor, dignified, but complaisant. But somehow Jack is less talkative than usual, and his visit rather a short one. It is July now. A month has passed away; the fine roses are all gone, and the air is sultry and heavy. A month has passed; a month of tormenting thoughts and an uneasy conscience; of delicious day-dreams and exquisite visions, and idle, dreamy flights of fancy; of hopes and fears, and illogical reasonings and inward battles of mingled misery and delight; of resolutions made to-day to be broken to-morrow; a month of all these things to Jack Everett, who loves with all his brave young heart his neighbor’s servant-girl, Kitty.

He has not seen her very often; now and then she would pass through the Raymond garden or yard, and his heart would beat wildly as he watched the sweet vision from his open window. At first he had looked at her beauty as at the loveliness of a flower, and with as little thought of drfnger. Then he fought—a stubborn but unavailing fight —against the #act that she had grown dear to him.; that he loved the little servant girl as well as if she had chanced a scion of the upper-ten, or he Tumself a James or Charles in the ander-gardening line. Several times w -Jlyv '’k **

he has spoken to her across the wall that lies between the Raymond yard and the domains of his boarding-house, but no word or hint of love has ever passed his lips in her presence, for he is manly and true and chivalrous. He has only spoken to her with gay“friendliness, or with respectful if rather tender courtesy; and he thinks her the sweetest and truest woman the world holds. But a servant girl! Poor Jack! He did not dream at first that Kitty had the power to steal his heart, but she has stolen it. It is gone, never to be recalled. He knows, now, that he loves her—he half resolves to go ftwav and try to forget her. Forget her 1 Never, while his heart still beats with life 1 And he chafes under the thought of Kitty’s blissful ignorance—is it ignorance—of her conquest, and insanely longs to throw himself at her feet —her pretty little feet, in their tiny worn boots—to rise again at her word and take her into his own loving care ever after. Then comes the bewildering thought that perhaps she will not love him—will never love him. In this frame of mind, one fair July morning, he strolls into the yard, and up to the old brick wall, overgrown with damp ivy. Not a very high wall; for, whereas it is higher than Kitty’s golden-brown head, it only reaches tall Jack’s breast, and permits that young gentleman to lean on it with some comfort. Looking across Mrs. Raymond’s grass-planted yard, Everett sees Kitty coming, her shining curls uncovered in the sunlight, her rounded arm bare to the elbow, where her print sleeves are jauntily tucked up, and in her shell-pink fingers a wet handful of Miss Lilias Raymond’s fine laces, which she begins put out to dry on the grass. “Good-morning, Kitty,” says Jack. “Good-morning,” says Kitty, smiling brightly up at him. She is kneeling on the grass, close by-the wall, pulling out and shaking tenderly the costly laces intrusted to her care. “What pretty hair you have, Kitty,” says Jack, irrelevantly, and quite involuntarily, “and how prettily you fix it!” He seldom pays her a compliment. “I wear it this way,” says Kitty, serenely, “because Miss Lilias says I must not.” “Is Miss Lilias kind to you, Kitty?” asks Jack, hastily, ignoring the fact that Kitty’s naive avowal expresses anything but amiability. “Not very,” she says, flushing hotly, and, half turning away, she shrugs her pretty shoulders. As she does this Jack, who is looking earnestly at her, sees a gleam of gold shine through the parted kerchief at her throat.

“Is that a locket ?” asks Everett. “Y es, is it not a pretty one ?” drawing it from the kerchief where it has lain hidden, suspended by the narrowest of narrow ribbons. “Let me look at it,” says Jack. “Suppose my sweetheart’s picture is in it?” says Kitty naughtily. Jack’s fair face darkens. “I didn’t know you had a sweetheart,” he says, rather sharply, for him. “Do you think you know everything, Mr. Everett?” asks Kitty. “Because I don’t.” “Good morning,” says Jack curtly, turning away. But when he has taken two long, indignant steps, he turns, recalled by a sweet, laughing young voice, and a lovely, smiling face, a little hand. “Come back, Mr. Everett, and look at my locket!” And Mr. Everett comes back, and finds Kitty standing on tiptoe by the wall, and holding out the locket in question. “You remind me of Miss Lilias this morning,” remarks Kitty. “You are so cross and horrid, you know.” Mr. Everett is employed with the locket, so does not reply to Kitty’s complimentary observation. It is a heavy gold medallion, and on its back, in small diamonds, is the name “Katherine Earle Lennox.” Where did poor little Kitty get such a costly thing? Within, for Jack opens quickly the tiny spring, is a picture, not Kitty’s sweetheart, but that of a girl, a face wonderfully like her own, only a little older and graver—a little less lively, perhaps. “I think that was my mother’s face,” says Kitty, wistfully. Jack looks up from the locket with a smile— he is deeply relieved that the picture within it is not that of Kitty’s mythical sweetheart. “Kitty,” he says, “you don’t remember your parents at all ?” “I have never heard of them, ” says poor Kitty. “I do not even know their names. But I think that is the picture of my mother. She looks like a lady, does she not?”

“She does,” says Jack. “Kitty, tell me about your childhood, as far back as f'ou can remember.” The last of the aces have been hung out; Kitty clasping her slim fingers leans against the ivy, and Jack is bending over her. Neither knows that, from an upper window, Lilias Raymond’s hard, dark eyes are watching them. “I remember, ” says Kitty, “of being on a great vessel —I think that is the farthest back of all—and seeing the ocean around, and noisy, merry young sailors on board, and ladies who would smile at me When I passed them in playing on the deck; and a tall, darkeyed man, who frowned at me, and of whom I felt afraid. Then I recollect living in a cottage, a pretty place with flowers about it. It must have been out in the country, for I do not think there was another house in sight. I lived with an old woman, who was very kind to me; and one servant, a boy. I never saw any one else, except when a gentleman, I think he was the same I saw on the vessel, came sometimes. I was Very happy there, though; I used to play all day long under the trees, and I always wore this locket. When I was still a little child, the old woman died, and (as I was told afterward) the doctor who attended her took me to the Orphan Asylum in this town. I never heard his name, nor that of the place from which he*brought me; but the Matron gave me my locket when I came to * Mrs. Raymond. I came into her service four years ago; since then—” And Kitty laughed, and with the laugh, the old saucy brightness came back to her face, every shade of pensive wistfulness gone. She ran into the house, without even a parting word, and Jack slowly turned away from the wall. But an hour later, as he lingered near a window—Jack studied even less than formerly—he hears the sound of sobbing, bitter, passionate sobbing, and in an instant more he stands in his old place by the wall. Fast, heart-break-ing sobs, from Mrs. Raymond’s kitchen. Utterly forgetting prudence and propriety, Jack lays one hand on the wall, and vaults over it; he strides across the yard and into his neighbor’s kitchen. There, half kneeling, in a heap upon the floor, leaning against the low win-dow-sill, her face in her hands, and veiled by her dishevelled curls, is Kitty, sobbing with passionate vehemence, among the pots and pans and general paraphernalia of the kitchen. Jack makes his way cautiously among these articles of domestic economy,

A until he stands at her side. O, to comfort her, if he only knew how 1 “Kitty,” says Jack, gently, “what is the matter? Can I help you in any way?” Kitty looks up for a second, then, having ascertained who her companion is, again hides her face, begins to sob again. “Go away,” she says from the depths of her pocket handkerchief. “Yon had no business to jump over that wall and come into Mrs. Raymond’s kitchen. I wonder what she would say if she found you here?” “I came to see what was the matter with you,” says Jack, feteling rather injured. “Well, you had better go and scramble over your wall again, and do it as quickly as you can,” says Kitty, ungraciously,'sobbing out her advice. Now, although the situation is a pathetic, not to say an alarming one, Jack laughs at her words. Kitty is at first somewhat offended, but, being of a mirthful temperament, presently laughs too. Then she lifts her April face and smiles at Jaok —her very sweetest smile. “Now, tell me what was the matter,” says Mr. Everett, persuasively. “There was—a row,” says Kitty, composedly. “Whatwas the cause of it?” inquires Jack, with much interest. “You were,” says Kitty, solemnly. “Mrs. Raymond and Miss Lilias thought that I—that you—l mean that—it was ■wrong for me to talk to you. I disagreed with them, and so there was a row.”

“Mrs. Raymond and Miss Lilas ought to be hung, both of them,” says Jack, savagely. “Do you really think so?” asks Kitly, deeply delighted. “So do I. And—shall I tell you something, Mr. Everett? lam going away. (Her face visibly brightening.) I want to go on the stage. Don’t you think I can ? Do say yes! I have a good voice, you know, and I am —pretty, am I not?” coaxingly. She is standing before him with hands clasped, as they always are when she is deeply earnest. Jack’s face is very grave. For some moments he is silent. “Kitty, I have a question to ask you,” he says. “Then why in the world don’t you ask it?” apparently surprised at his stupidity. “Kitty,” says the young man, in a lower tone, “will you marry me ?* Kitty’s face, very white before, now blushes a lovely pfnk. No answer. “Kitty,” Bays Jack, his heart bounding and his voice shaking a little, in his earnestness, “why don’t you answer me?” “Mr. Everett,” says Kitty, severely, “I wouldn’t wish to marry a housemaid, if I were you. Why don’t you ask Miss Lilias? Who knows? She might take you.” “I wouldn’t take her, then,” says Jack disrespectfully. “I never loved any woman but you, Kitty; I never will.” “Sure enough ?” asks Kitty in a softer tone. “Do you really love me, Mr. Everett?” “I do; I swear I do,” says Jack, holding her little hand tightly and sinking down on his knees before her—his sweet queen of human kind! His neighbor’s maid-of-all-work! He knows that his own young life, and all the world beside, would be worthless without the little fairy before him. He loves her!

“That is right,” says Kitty, with her heavenly smile. “I like you to kneel down to me. ” Two figures darken the open door, and shut out the summer breeze and sunshine; the figures of Lilias Raymond and her mother. There, in their own kitchen, surrounded by a barricade of kitchen furniture, these ladies see their own servant. girl, Kitty—Kitty, lovelier than ever, bright tears in her eyes, a smile on her lips and a soft blush on her cheek, and kneeling at her feet, down on their own kitchen floor, Jack Everett, student at law. They are silent, because their horror is t@o great for words. Jack, perceiving them, rises to his feet, veiy red, and very much confused; while Kitty, overcome by mirth, in spite of her consternation, sits down on a neighboring dresser and laughs merrily. “I am surprised to find you here, Mr. Everett,” gasps Mrs. Raymond, rather faintly. “It is astonishing, mamma,” observes Miss Raymond, who has now recovered her equilibrium, addressing herself to her unnerved parent; “what mistaken estimates we sometimes make, in regard to character.” “I must apologize for my presence here, Mrs. Raymond,” says the discomfited Jack—and then is silent again, because he does not know how to apologize. “I presume you do not intend to remain here much longer,” says Lilias, icily, to Kitty. “I do not, indeed, Miss Raymond, ” says Kitty, who, with a woman’s quickness, has now risen to the situation. “Mr. EVerett, it will not be convenient to finish our conversation just here, but (with an irrepressible smile) in case you should wish to say anything farther to me you may call at Mrs. Lindsey’s boarding house, No. —, street.”

“I will be there this afternoon, Miss Lennox,” says Jack, quickly. “Goodmorning, ladies,” to Mrs. and Miss Raymond, who refuse to notice his salutation ; and, making a virtue of necessity, he crosses the yard and springs over the wall, in full view of the astounded pair. ******* “By Jove!” says Jack. “What’s up, Jack?” inquires Mrs. Everett. They are seated in the private parlor of an East Lynne hotel, Jack reclining in a rocker, scanning the columns of a crisp Herald ; Kitty on the window-sill, lovely in white muslin and fluttering blue ribbons, swinging one tiny foot in a bronze slipper, to the detriment of the papered wall. This is their honeymoon, Jack’s and Kitty’s; and they are on their wedding tour. “Kitty,” says Jack, “is your name Katharine Earle Lennox?” “It is not,” replies the young matron, promptly. “It is Kitty Everett.” “A young woman of the name of Katharine Earle Lennox," says Jack, slowly, “is requested to call at the residence of Earle Lennox, No. , street, New York, and hear of something to her advahtage.” * * * ♦ * * _ “Katharine!” says Earle Lennox, looking hard at Jack’s little wife, who stands before him. Jack has taken her to New York and to the home of “Earle Lennox,” ip swj#wer the appeal in the

personal column of the Herald. It is a luxurious mansion; blooming gardens ore round it, and within great mirrors and exquisite statuary gleam, and Kit§’s feet sink into the velvety carpets. nt Kitty clings nervously to Jack’s arm while she waits in the spacious drawing-room for Earle Lennox. And now he stands before her—a tall, rather stem-looking man, with handsome features, silvered hair and hollow, dark eyes. “Katharine 1” he says; “Katharine!” Kitty lays her open locket in his hand. “You know this?” she falters. “I do,” he sayß} “I do. It holds my wife’s face. Yon are my little lost daughter; the picture of your dead mother.” Kitty now stands upon tip-toe and kisses him; and the stern-looking man holds her to his breast. “How beautiful you are, my daughter,” he sayß, with pardonable pride; “how perfect in every way. What a mercy of Providence it was that you were brought Up like a lady—that you found friends.” “I was not brought up like a lady, papa,” says his daughter, prettily; “and this is the only friend I have,” laying her hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Let me thank him for all he has done for you,” says Mr. Lennox, eagerly. “But he looks very young—bless my soul, yes! Who is he, Katharine?” ““He is my husband,” says Kitty, softly. “You are married?” (With evident disappointment.) “I am sorry for that, Katharine, although (looking hard at Jack) it is only justice to say, I don’t think I could have a finer-looking young fellow for a son-in-law!”.

In course of time the links of Kitty’s broken history were put together as well as might be by Kitty’s father! “Your mother,” he told her, “had a cousin —a hot-headed, passionate young fellow —who was in love with her when she married me. He never forgave Kate’s marriage. When we lost you (you were four years old at the time) we never thought of him, although he left New York at the same time. A year later Kate died, and her cousin was still in the Southern States. Indeed, I never saw or even heard of him until three months ago, when I was sent for, and going to one of the depots, near which a train had been wrecked, I found him there among the wounded. I brought him home, and when he was dying he confessed that he had stolen you, partly out of a miserable revenge, partly because you were almost a picture of your mother. I think his disappointment had slightly affected his brain. He told me of having paid a country woman to keep you in a retired place; of’going there to look for you and not finding you. I have looked for you, Katharine, and I have put advertisements in every paper of importance. I wonder you did not see them, my dear; lam afraid you do not take as much interest in the press as your poor mother did. If it had not been for your husband —but he is a fine fellow, yes, sir, by Jove! You are a very fine young fellow, and will be an honor to your profession, I am sure. ”