Chapter XIII: Kitty's Proposal

A week after the events related in the last chapter Katherine Hunt was standing in her pretty sitting-room. It was about eleven o'clock in the morning. She had ordered her carriage to come round at half-past eleven. She meant to do a round of shopping, and afterwards to visit a hospital in which she took an interest, in East London. She was already dressed, in a smart jacket and pretty hat. She was drawing on her gloves, when the servant threw open the door and announced Miss Hepworth, and Kitty Hepworth came in.

Kitty's face was white, and all the joy and happiness which had beamed in it when Katherine first made its acquaintance, on the night of the fancy ball, had left it. She came up to Katherine, clasped both her hands, and said impulsively,--

"If you cannot help me, no one can."

"Do sit down, Miss Hepworth. Your visit astonishes me very much," said Katherine.

"When I tell you what I have come about, you will be still more astonished. I want you to do something great--tremendous. I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt of you three times running, and every time yours was the helping hand, yours the sustaining touch. I came to you without telling Aunt Louisa. I have come alone. Are you going out?"

"Yes; will you come with me?"

"You must not go out; we can talk best here. Countermand your carriage--that is, if you are going to drive. I claim this morning from you. You have forced yourself into my affairs, and I claim this morning; it is my right."

"I have forced myself into your affairs!" said Katherine Hunt. "What do you mean?"

For answer Kitty plunged her hand into her pocket.

"Here is your purse," she said. "You got back the money, and now here is the purse. Pretty, is it not?--soft Russian leather, and your initials in silver! Here it is back."

"My pretty, pretty purse!" said Katherine. She took it up, handling it with affection, and then put it down. "Now, what does this mean, Miss Hepworth?"

"Call me Kitty. We must be friends in future. Don't you want to ask me something?"

Miss Hunt thought for a moment; then she crossed the room and rang the bell. The servant appeared.

"Send a message to the stables, Jameson, and say that I shall not require the brougham this morning," said the young lady. "And, Jameson," she added, as the servant was about to withdraw, "don't admit any one. I shall be particularly engaged for the next hour or so."

The man promised compliance, and left the room.

"Now, Miss Hepworth, I am at your service," said Katherine Hunt.

Kitty was still standing. She was a forlorn-looking little figure. Without a word, she now raised her hand, pulled the pin from her hat, and put the hat on the table. Her pretty, curly hair was all tossed and untidy. The pallor in her small face was very marked, the black shadows under her big, dark eyes very apparent. Her sweet lips, too, had a sorrowful droop. But there was a queer, strange determination about the little creature which Katherine Hunt, knowing her story, as to a great extent she did, could not help, in a curious manner, respecting.

"You saw me a little over a week ago at Kenmuir House," continued Kitty. "You saw me on the happiest, the greatest night of my life--the night of my engagement."

"Ah! did Captain Keith propose for you that night?"

"He did; and I accepted him. I hoped he would propose that night. I hoped the dress would do the business. That was why I--" she turned very white, but her words came out bravely--"that was why I stole your purse."

"Sit down, Kitty," said Katherine, "sit down. If you grow any whiter you will faint, and I don't want you to faint on my hands."

"You knew that I stole the purse, and that was why you told me the story of it," said Kitty then.

"I did not know, but I wanted to know. I beg your pardon for my unwarrantable and cruel curiosity."

"Another person would have been still more cruel. And you may know; I don't mind your knowing. I did it because I love him."

"You will forgive me, Miss Hepworth, but it was a strange way of showing your love! Were you so poor--in such distress--that you must take my purse? Did you realize that you might get the driver of the hansom into serious trouble?"

"I never thought of the driver of the hansom; I only thought that the money which I needed was put into my hands by Providence."

"Rather say by the devil!"

"Very likely. And yet," said Kitty, "it did achieve its purpose."

Katherine Hunt was silent.

"Shall we agree," she said then, after a long pause, "not to speak of this any more? You know, and I know, and Captain Keith knows. Whatever your motive was, the deed is done. The money has been restored to me; even the purse has been restored. Shall I forget, and will you forget? I think he at least will act as if he forgets."

"But he can never forget--never, never!" said Kitty Hepworth.

"We must all act--we three who know must act as if we forgot," continued Katherine Hunt. "You may rest assured with regard to me. I did not respect you the other night--I will own it--but I respect you now. You were brave to bring back the purse, and you were still braver to acknowledge that you did what you did. I respect you, and I will act as if I quite forgot. Is that why you have come? If so, rest assured--all is well."

"I came for this; but this is only a small matter compared with what I want to say now," said the girl. "Don't you wonder--that is, if you think of anything at all in connection with me--why I am here to-day?"

"No; why should I wonder?"

"And yet I told you I was engaged to Captain Keith!"

"You told me, and he told me. By-the-way," continued Katherine Hunt, "of course I ought to wonder. He has left, has he not?"

"He sailed on Saturday, and my sister Mollie, who is one of the nursing sisters, has gone too. Gavon is ordered to Dundee, in the neighbourhood of Ladysmith, and Mollie is ordered straight to Ladysmith, where there is a hospital, and where the wounded are to be taken. I wanted to go with Mollie, but she would not hear of it; I wanted to go with Gavon, but that also was impossible."

"I thought there was a possibility of your being married before he left?"

"I wanted it, but Aunt Louisa would not hear of it. Gavon left me to her care, and he left her to my care. I have said good-bye to him, and he thinks I shall not see him until the war is over; and he knows that there is a great, a dreadful possibility of his never coming back. But he does not know me after all, for I cannot rest under such terrible conditions. I must follow him."

"But, Miss Hepworth, surely this is madness! If you love him, you will sacrifice your own feelings rather than put him to needless pain."

"I love him," said Kitty, and there was an obstinate note in her voice, "but not in that noble, heroic sort of fashion. I love him--I suppose selfishly. I cannot keep away from him; I must be close to him--by his side. Sometimes I am visited by a fear--oh, I won't tell you; there may be nothing in it--but I don't want him to be alone with--with _Mollie_. And I want to go--to be close to him! I will go to Ladysmith. He is certain to get to Ladysmith sooner or later. I shall sail in the next ship that goes to Durban, and get to Ladysmith by hook or by crook!"

"You are plucky," said Katherine, "only I don't think you are right. On the contrary, I think you are wrong; but, all the same, you are plucky."

"I am glad you think me plucky," replied Kitty. "And now I come to my great request--my request--and the reason of this visit."

"Well, my dear?"

"I want you to come with me."

"I!" said Katherine Hunt. "What in the world do you mean?"

"Oh, you must, you must! I have thought it all out, and I am determined to win you over; for women like you, strong, and brave, and daring, are wanted in a time of war. You must go in some capacity--in some fashion. Oh, won't you, Miss Hunt, won't you? And won't you take me with you? You are rich, and strong, and young. Won't you, won't you go?"

"You are mad, Kitty Hepworth!"

"Perhaps I am. Anyhow, I want you to go. If you don't, I will go alone, and then perhaps I shall fail. I may never get to Ladysmith, for the country is already, they say, in the hands of the enemy; but if you come with me I shall succeed. Think of it; think it over for twenty-four hours. We must leave here on Friday. Oh, will you come? You have nothing, surely, to keep you at home; and it means so much to me. Will you promise?"

"You ask me, calmly and coolly, a girl whom you scarcely know, to leave my father and go with you on a wild-goose chase!"

"It is not a wild-goose chase. It would be in your case an act of nobility. You can make some excuse to your father; you can arrange things. I will give you just twenty-four hours; then I will come for your answer. If you go with me, I shall be all right; if you don't go with me, I shall go alone. Now think it over; don't say no at present." As Kitty spoke she rose. "I dreamed of you three times last night," she said, "and you seemed to be the way out--the only way out. I feel, somehow, that you will go."

As she said the last words she held out her hand to Katherine Hunt. Katherine grasped it; then she looked into the little face, so childish, so obstinate, so weak, and yet so strong. She drew Kitty towards her, and laid a light kiss on her forehead.

"Although you stole my purse I kiss you," she said. "Now, never again will we allude to this."

"And you will think it over?"

"You certainly are the most startling, original, impossible child!"

"But you will think it over?"

"I will think it over."

"And may I come to see you to-morrow?"

"Come at this hour; but don't be too terribly disappointed, Kitty, if I am obliged to say no."

Kitty smiled; her smile was radiant. She raised Katherine's hand, pressed it to her lips, and ran out of the room.

Kitty let herself out of the great house. Katherine Hunt was so stunned that she forgot the ordinary duties of hostess. It was only when she heard the slight bang of the hall door, which Kitty made in shutting it after her, that she seemed to awake from a sort of dream. She sank down on a sofa, clasped her long, slender fingers together, and was lost in thought. How long she thought she never knew, but she was roused at last by the servant announcing lunch.

She went into the dining-room. Her father often came home to lunch, and he was present to-day.

"My dear Kate," he said, "are you well? Is anything the matter?"

"I am well," replied Katherine, "but there is a great deal the matter."

"My child, what?"

"I will tell you to-night, father. Shall you be dining at home to-night?"

"Yes, if you wish it. I had thought of dining at the club; but if you wish it, Kate, I will come home."

"I should like you to come home; I may have something to talk over."

Mr. Hunt agreed.

"Just as you like, of course," he said. He looked hard at her, and an uneasy sensation stirred within him.

She was the idol of his life; she was all the child he had ever had; she represented everything that made his money valuable. He was a rough diamond--a rough sort of man in every sense of the word. But he was tender, and gentle, and chivalrous to Katherine. He had always been tender and chivalrous to her. He respected her; she was a good girl, and he knew it. He trusted her implicitly. If he had a dread in life, it was that some day she might leave him; she might do what in his opinion all worthy women did--seek a husband and a home of her own. He did not want this. The thought of her marrying did not annoy him, but the thought of her leaving him was almost unbearable. If only he could secure a son-in-law who would be submissive--who would be satisfied to live at home, to share the big house with Katherine and himself--then, indeed, he would consider himself a lucky man. But no such son-in-law had ever loomed across his horizon, and he was not the man to seek one. He was a keen business man, but he could do nothing towards making an establishment for Katherine. His dread now, as he looked into her face, was that a son-in-law of the undesirable sort--a man who would want to take his one ewe lamb away from him--had appeared; that Katherine had found her mate, and was going to leave him.

"For if she does want to go, I can't refuse her," he thought. "Although it break my heart, I can't refuse her anything."

So he went away a little anxious and slightly perturbed. Katherine would not ask him to come home to dinner for a mere nothing.

Meanwhile that young lady thought out her thoughts, and having arranged them compactly and neatly to her own satisfaction, she proceeded to act. She was very sensible, very wise. She was also very clever. From her earliest days she had possessed a talent for writing. She had written smart articles more than once for the different newspapers. She was rather in request as society correspondent to a weekly, which, for the purposes of this story, we will call _The Snowball_. _The Snowball_ had on several occasions published a series of papers by this young lady, and now Katherine Hunt drove straight to the office in order to interview the editor.

Times were busy for newspaper people. Newspaper proprietors and editors were at their wits' end as to how to shove and push into their papers all the interesting items with regard to the war which were pouring in by Reuters and every other telegraphic agency. The editor of _The Snowball_ would not have seen any other outside correspondent that day; but Katherine Hunt was a valuable contributor to his paper, and he sent a message that he would spare her a few moments. She entered his office in her usual bright, brisk fashion, and came to the point at once.

"I want to make a request, Mr. Henderson," she said.

"What is that, Miss Hunt? We have no room for your special line of work just now; every scrap of available space is required for war intelligence. Where this war will end God only knows! The impression amongst most people is that with a small force we shall bring the Boers to their senses; but I, for one, think that the future of the war is larger, and involves more serious issues, than most of my _confrères_ seem to think. What can I do for you?"

"I called to say that I am going to South Africa on Friday," said Katherine Hunt.

"You!"

"Yes. I want you to give me the proud position of your war correspondent at Ladysmith."

"Miss Hunt!"

"I should make a good correspondent, and will send you the news as direct as I can."

The editor hesitated.

"Our circulation is scarcely large enough to warrant our meeting your expenses," he said then. "I could not pay much for the articles."

"It is not a question of money," said Katherine, rising. "Pay me what you think fair; but the remuneration need not stand in the way. If you decline my offer, I shall go to the office of _The Sparrow_ and make the same proposal to its editor. I should like to write for you, or for some paper, because I should go out to South Africa in a more assured position as a war correspondent. That is all."

A moment or two later Katherine left the office, having got the post she coveted. The editor knew that he would be a madman to refuse so golden a chance.